


A Royal Wedding

by UnicornFlowers



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A half-assed attempt at humor, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Miya Atsumu is a Good Brother, Romance, Sakusa is actually pretty chill, Twins, multiple weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 94,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnicornFlowers/pseuds/UnicornFlowers
Summary: "Do you, Osamu Miya, take Kiyoomi Sakusa to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death you do part, according to God's holy law, and this your solemn vow?"Atsumu is so focused on suppressing an eye-roll that he barely remembers to react to his brother's name as his own - no cause for concern though, he catches the unnatural silence before it gets awkward."---OR: The tender-loving, mushy-gushy, fluffy-wuffy twin-swtich AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 478
Kudos: 926





	1. let's marry this son of a bitch

Osamu finishes parting his hair to the left with an over-exaggerated flick of his wrist - Atsumu may be the dramatic one, but Osamu takes the prize for eccentricity.

"Well, not quite as handsome as me, but ya know what? It'll do," he examines Atsumu who now looks like a reflection of himself - they've always been carbon copies of each other, but Atsumu feels this is taking it to another level. Turns out, erasing the minute differences between them isn't half as easy as they'd expected it to be.

"Are ya serious? I'm doin' this fer you ya know, ya could at least do me the courtesy of shuttin' yer trap fer two seconds," Asumu complains because he feels like complaining - this is what he gets for being a good brother. Who wouldn't want to complain when you're being forced into a stuffy suit for a stuffy wedding. God, he's wearing _makeup?_ He's never worn makeup in his life before. 

"I know," that's their apology, acknowledgment. The Miya's are a stubborn family, as rooted to their ideals as they are affectionate. This is the best he's going to get from his brother. 

A minute goes by, Osamu fiddles with Atsumu's hair as if it were his own, and Atsumu reviews for the nth time today why he agreed to do this and why the fuck he's not backing out yet. He should back out of this batshit crazy plan - they'll get arrested for treason, they'll get put in jail (can you get a death sentence for this? Atsumu can only wonder).

Osamu comes to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder. They're, for the very first time in their life since they were born, absolutely identical. Not a hair out of place gives away one from the other, the only marks that could differentiate them cleverly hidden under the sleeves of trim suits. 

Their eyes are of slightly different hues, but it's so unnoticeable that only someone trained in the art of detecting lies would spot this one, so obvious it's almost ingenious. Looking at them like this, Atsumu feels brotherly affection pool in his chest - is this going to be the last thing he sees before the uprooting of his life blooms to fruition? 

He knows, rationally, that it's not like he'll never see Osamu again, but there's something about the prospect of _leaving_ that makes an ache sting sharply in his chest. Something about the idea of being a world apart from his twin that makes him feel like he's stepping off the edge of a cliff into nothing but sheer darkness. 

God, they literally slept in the same room until they were in high school, and even after that they mutually insisted on having rooms joined by a wall so they could communicate in morse code far past their bedtime and mask it among the sounds of the palace - the transition had been an arduous one that Atsumu still remembers as one of the most difficult of his life. Trying to fall asleep without Osamu's steady breaths in the bunk above him was damn near impossible. 

He wonders what it'll be like to be in another fucking country. 

"I love ya, y'know," Atsumu speaks to their reflections in the mirror, and he can see something that runs the line of guilt flicker in his brother's eyes. Osamu doesn't respond, merely stares sadly at their mirror images - one might almost say they're the real-life versions of the copy and paste function on a laptop. 

When Osamu says nothing for a drawn-out moment, Atsumu senses the need for further prompting fast approaching. 

"Ya gotta say it back," Osamu shakes his head stubbornly, but Atsumu can see the beginnings of tears in gunmetal eyes. One thing that's always stayed constant among the twins is that, when one twin cries, the other inevitably does too (usually within the first ten minutes). "C'mon now 'Samu. Ya can't cry. Y'know I'll cry too an' I got makeup ta take care of. Now seriously, ya gotta say it back." 

"I love ya too," he says finally, and Atsumu doesn't suppress a smile at that - they look quite different now, one reflection painted with somber joy, the other almost heartbreakingly sad. 

"Yeah, I know ya do," he tells himself he's not going to cry, and he means it because _hell_ if he's going to sit in a dressing room for another four fucking hours while a team of highly trained makeup artists design a look that "specifically screams 'natural'." 

So he doesn't cry, because he's not going to drag Osamu down with him - the captain of a sinking boat doesn't grab his second in command and hang on for dear life. He goes down with his ship, convictions readily intact. And that's exactly what Atsumu's going to do.

"Alright," he decides after a moment of both of them being on the brink of tears. "Let's marry this son of a bitch." 

\---

_"I have exciting news, boys," their mother's definition of exciting is almost always boring (on rare occasions it's even bad) but they entertain her because she has a smile worth billions._

_The queen tottles over to her sons, delicate hands clutched in front of her, a clear sign that she's proud of them - they haven't even done anything (or if they have, neither are aware of what it might be), so neither can fathom why she's wearing the same expression she did when they'd made their school's volleyball team or won nationals._

_(Their father wanted them to have a classical homeschool education, but both boys had insisted that it was 'too stuffy' and 'way pretentious'.)_

_Atsumu straightens up accordingly, Osamu pauses Godzilla - at quite an inconvenient moment too, there's blood everywhere, certainly not a sight befitting of a queen. But Queen Miori is excited enough that she doesn't even spare a glance at the TV._

_"Yeah ma?" Atsumu tenses in preparation to run depending on how bad this "exciting" news is. (One time he all out sprinted when his mother had presented them with a pair of boxer briefs and happily announced "photoshoot!" - look, Atsumu's all for flaunting his, admittedly, godlike body, but there are some lines to don't cross, like taking basically naked pictures with your twin brother.)_

_"So, the prince of a kingdom quite close to us is about to be coronated. He's of marrying age and," she smiles at them expectantly. Atsumu shakes his head, not understanding, Osamu scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. Her grin is so priceless, Atsumu doesn't have the nerve to tell her that she's not making any sense, he assumes Osamu feels the same, so they keep their mouths shut. "And the king and queen want him to marry one of ya!"_

_Like a deer in headlights, Atsumu can't even run - not that he wouldn't enjoy the idea of sprinting at max speed far far away from what is about to become a very complicated conversation._

_"Um..."_

_"Uh..." Osamu's supposed to be the articulate one between the two of them, but both twins have the bad tendency to get super fucking stupid in the face of emotional adversity. They stare dumbfounded at their mother who still retains her bright smile as if she didn't just tell them she wants to sell them to another fucking kingdom - actually no, it was worse. She wants to sell_ one _of them to another fucking kingdom._

 _Atsumu likes to think he got pretty lucky when drawing lots in life. He lives in a palace with literally everything he could ever want right at his fingertips, his parents are loving and accommodating of him, no one gives a flying fuck the not one, but_ two _twins turned out to be dead gay (well, Atsumu's bi, but whatever), he's super attractive and, let's be honest, he's got mad charm._

_But right now, he feels anything but lucky. He feels like someone snatched the rug out from under him resulting in him falling down through an endless black hole. There's no coming back from this. This is permanent. Marriage is permanent and only one of them will be getting married which means..._

_Atsumu and Osamu are like shelter dogs: they're not meant to be apart. Atsumu and Osamu are not like shelter dogs in that they're not going to learn to love their new homes. Atsumu most of all. Osamu can manage to put on a brave face and keep his manners intact when he feels like his world is falling apart at the seams, but Atsumu cracks with it, unraveling like a loose ball of yarn until all that's left is the raw center, exposed to the chilly air like an open wound._

_"Aren'tcha boys more excited about this?" Their mother cuts through Atsumu's thoughts like a knife, extracting him from an anxious spiral back to reality. In the face of it, he turns, as he always does, to Osamu, who seems to be looking to him for the same familiar comfort."This is the chance of a lifetime! We could join two kingdoms-"_

_"Waddaya want us ta do ma? Fight for his hand in marriage? No fuckin' way, I'm out," Atsumu does as Atsumu will do, which means that he's made up his mind before even giving his mother the chance to explain - though, it's not as though it's unclear. Atsumu sees this for what it is clear as fucking day. And he knows what's going to happen if he goes through with it._

_"Atsumu! Please ya gotta consider this!" She pleads in a way that, under any normal circumstances, would have him running to her seeking forgiveness and comfort. That's not the case this time._

_This time, he pushes to his feet with finality, making the way he distances himself from any mention of this proposal blatantly evident. He's not doing it. He's not going to be a fucking sell-out and leave his brother all alone because some prissy rich boy from a neighboring country decided he wants to get married. Like whoopty-fucking-doo, get someone else with your personality like normal people have been for thousands of years._

_"Fine, ma, ya want me ta consider it? Fine, I'll consider it," he folds his arms and stands steadfast, unmoving as a statue might be - Atsumu's always been the more stubborn of the two, and even now, he speaks for both of them._

_"I'll consider the fact thatcha want me ta leave my brother behind so this fucking prim-proper bitch doesn't have to put in the effort ta find himself a real husband. An' I'll_ consider _the fact that yer sellin' us ta this family we've never met before fer a fuckin' business deal. An' I'll tell ya like I did the first time that I'm not fuckin' doin' it no way no how. An' ya can't fucking make me."_

_He knows he sounds spoiled and entitled and just like every stereotype of a prince he's been goaded with his entire life. But he can't bring himself to care as he storms off, the petulant child in him he's long locked away making its flamboyant reprise._

_He hides in his room the rest of the day, only sneaking out at night with Osamu and Sunarin to get French fries at a local fast food place - they're never allowed such indulgences because they're considered beneath royalty, but he hardly cares. Plus, he feels the rushing high that comes with such a small, inconsequential rebellion go straight to his soul like a shot of morphine for the pain._

_You might wonder how one sneaks out of a 24/7 heavily guarded facility such as a royal palace and you might be surprised at how easy it is, especially when the guards at the front gate like you and take bribes for your mother's cookies (which are also really easy to get your hands on if you play your cards right). Plus, Sunarin always aids in their escapes - never a boring moment with that guy around._

_In the following weeks, they don't talk about their mother's proposal, Miori doesn't even mention it, nor does their father. Atsumu's convinced the storm's finally passed._

_He finds out three days after his birthday that Osamu took the bullet and said yes._

\---

"Do you, Osamu Miya, take Kiyoomi Sakusa to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death you do part, according to God's holy law, and this your solemn vow?" 

Atsumu is so focused on suppressing an eye-roll that he barely remembers to react to his brother's name as his own - no cause for concern though, he catches the unnatural silence before it gets awkward. 

"Uh, yeah, I do." 

He'll admit if asked that Kiyoomi Sakusa is a gorgeous specimen of a human being. High cheekbones and dark eyes that could hold storms or stars, maybe a beautiful amalgamation of both. Lips that look soft and eyelashes that have no right to be as long as they are and- _god,_ that jawline could cut glass - all framed by dark curls set perfectly in place. 

Kiyoomi Sakusa is nothing short of absolutely stunning, and it would be safe to say that the way his face is completely devoid of emotion even on this, his very wedding day, is oddly alluring in a way that Atsumu doesn't have solid words for. 

However-

"Do you, Kiyoomi Sakusa, take Osamu Miya to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death you do part, according to God's holy law, and this your solemn vow?"

"Yes, I do," of course his voice is pretty too, it's only fitting. 

It's ironic, Atsumu thinks in that moment, that this is, by all accounts the best thing he could've asked for in life. His "husband" (he refuses to call him that in all seriousness) is rich, part of a royal family, and _goddamn_ if he isn't one of the most beautiful people ever to walk on the face of the earth - Atsumu begins to theorize at that moment. Is Kiyoomi a god in mortal form?

It's ironic that his whole life he's foreseen this exact outcome as the ideal scenario, that this is exactly what he should want out of life. He's standing here on an altar, holding the hands of a man who can and likely will give him everything he could ever want to have. 

And yet it all feels so wrong, like Atsumu's living a life that isn't his, playing a part he never auditioned for. He guesses with the utmost bitterness that it tends to be that way when you're marrying someone you absolutely refused to even so much as _meet_ mere days ago. 

It feels wrong that he's up on that stupid altar with this gorgeous man while a million fucking diplomats and shit look at them like they're the best thing ever to happen to the international community. It feels wrong that this... _guy, Kiyoomi_ , is holding his hands like they've ever even _met_ each other before this whole shit show started. It feels wrong that Osamu's out there watching him, soon to be a distant memory once he departs to a new life that doesn't even belong to him. 

It all feels wrong, and he knows that nothing in the goddamn world would make it feel right. And he reminds himself as he stares into eyes that are as beautiful as they are soulless, that this, _all of this,_ is for Osamu. He doesn't mind. He swears on his life he doesn't, not if this will make his brother happy. So he adjusts his courage and stares straight into the eyes of the man he's supposed to be falling in love with as the priest says, 

"You may now kiss the groom."

This is what good brothers do, right? 


	2. when ya say it like that it sounds bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not Osamu."

"This is a...nice place."

He says 'nice' because Osamu would say 'nice'. His word preference would be 'wack'.

You know, it's really not as easy to be another person as you think, even when you know that person better than you know yourself. Atsumu hasn't seen his brother react in every situation. How is he supposed to react when something completely unexpected comes up?

It takes all of two days for him to be shipped out to this new country with his new not-husband. His goodbyes are clipped. The last thing he says to Osamu before he's being ushered onto a private jet is, _"Don't get ugly'r people'll think it's me."_

(While he doesn't regret his warning, Atsumu's always been something of a sentimental. He would've liked at least a proper "See ya never, probably." Or something of the sort).

Atsumu feels out of place despite having been royalty his entire life. He grew up in a palace not much different than this, he grew up being escorted by armed guards everywhere he went, he grew up with all things lavish. But it feels wrong - Osamu is the dignified one who knows how to be a prince. Atsumu is the fuck up who was never destined to be an heir to the throne anyway.

He was always fine with that. He's decidedly not fine with this.

"Thank you, Prince Osamu," Atsumu tries not to cringe at the sound of his brother's name falling from Kiyoomi's servant's (?) lips - he swallows the lump in his throat at the idea of _being_ Osamu. They used to mess around with the idea when they were kids, enjoyed throwing their classmates for a loop by styling their hair the same or wearing matching shirts, but this feels fucked up in a different sort of way.

So he nods in place of actual words - he doesn't quite trust his voice to come out as Osamu's. No one would be able to tell the difference, but he can, so he shuts up.

"Prince Kiyoomi, would you like me to show your husband around?" The word 'husband' catches in Atsumu's mind like the tail-end of a jacket on a splinter of wood. It hangs there limply, pending any real processing until Atsumu is safely alone. 

(Who knows how many hours that could take with all the people crawling the palace grounds - when you know everyone, it just feels like passing a family member in the hallway. When you don't it feels like you're living in a shopping mall.)

Atsumu can't help but think that at least if he has to go on a tour of a palace he's going to be living in (which will be boring as fuck because Atsumu is a brat) he won't have to keep spending time around his "husband". So far, all Kiyoomi has been to him is _cold as fucking ice,_ and Atsumu doesn't deal well with people like him. The longer Atsumu is forced to go without attention, the more horrible a person he becomes.

"Actually, I can take him," Atsumu's heart drops to the floor at Kiyoomi's words - if he ever figures out what malicious being above thought this would be a funny path for his life to take, he's going to strangle them with his bare hands.

The hand placed on his shoulder is as stiff as Atsumu feels - neither of them quite live up to their laid-back facades. Atsumu doesn't dare look at his "husband's" face, scared of what he might see reflected in inky irises - he briefly questions why he's doing this for 'Samu again (he's going to game hella favors from his brother for this).

He swallows roughly, hoping his rising panic level isn't having a palpable effect on his expression as Alfred (in place of receiving an actual name, Atsumu's elected to call him Alfred) nods wordlessly, a knowing smile perched on wrinkled lips. 

There are very few times in Atsumu's life when he wished that a bus would accidentally ram through a wall and kill him instantly. Now - as Kiyoomi nearly _slaps_ him on the back and stares coldly ahead in a way that could almost be considered threatening - is one of those times.

"Come on, _honey,_ " it's at that word that Atsumu knows he's fucked. 

The inflection, the tone, the way Kiyoomi's hand digs against his spine between his shoulder blades - okay, maybe his solid attempt at being Osamu for a whole five hours didn't quite take. He dreads the notion. Why? Because this could be considered treason, he could go to jail, Osamu could go to jail.

He would say he doubts this has ever happened in the past, but knowing humans, something similar has, at the very least, been thought of - maybe not attempted, but someone had to have imagined at some point in history that this exact situation could occur.

Sadly, there are no rule books written for it. Atsumu will just have to wing this like he does most other things in life.

They don't speak a word to each other as Kiyoomi guides him through gilded marble corridors and down mirrored hallways. They even take a golden elevator (Atsumu's house doesn't have an elevator. Like a chump, he's been taking the stairs his whole life. Fuck fitness, he wants a golden elevator, douchey as it may be) to what he _thinks_ is the third floor?

With practiced grace, Kiyoomi avoids anyone and everyone who might ask prying questions, only giving curt nods of acknowledgment to the occasional waitstaff passing by. Atsumu shouldn't be surprised considering this is the place where Prince-soon-to-be-King Kiyoomi Sakusa grew up. But it still surprises him how efficient his every movement is.

As they walk, Atsumu feels like he's speeding toward the edge of a cliff, ready to hit an unknown edge at any moment.

\---

_"Kiyoomi, right?"_

_Kiyoomi would describe the man before him as attractive - not quite in the way he's used to. There's no makeup or air-brushing, his face doesn't mirror those of Instagram models or men in advertisements, but he's attractive._

_Heavy-lidded eyes are gunmetal-glittery, his smile is charming if not a bit subdued - there's nothing in it to suggest he's happy or satisfied with this arrangement. Kiyoomi wishes his face better reflected his thoughts. Then maybe at least this man, Osamu, would know the feeling is mutual._

_You can't force a spark just like you can't for love. But his parents can certainly try._

_"Yes. You're Osamu?"_

_"That's me."_

_Don't get him wrong, Kiyoomi really is appreciative of how supportive his parents are attempting to be - when he came out not too long ago, they had cried (whether it was the 'gay' part or the fact that things were changing that drew tears, he doesn't know). But what he feels would go above and beyond would be if his parents weren't forcing him to get married before his coronation._

_He supposes he has no right to be ungrateful when his parents are already willing to muddy up their image with a very public, very gay wedding. Still though, as he looks at this man in front of him, he knows: it's a face he could love, but not one he does. Plus, it feels fucked that he's meeting his_ husband _only a few weeks before their wedding._

_Their respective parents bow out, leaving them alone in an enormous dining room - Kiyoomi has always liked their main formal dining room, but at the moment he feels dwarfed by its size, small under the gaze of this virtual stranger. He feels weak, powerless to a pre-escribed fate he had no say in designing._

_He doesn't let this show on his face - sometimes the neutral mask he's made for himself comes in handy._

_"You don't want to be here," neither of them eat. Plates of food made from the finest ingredients by the finest chefs sit in front of them, and Kiyoomi can't even gather the will to summon his appetite._

_He observes the man across the table. He wears a reflection that mirrors how Kiyoomi feels which is how he knows - stone-cold nothing is present in his eyes, his posture isn't relaxed but rather resigned, he picks at his food like a man who just ate. Kiyoomi shares the unspoken sentiment._

_"Yeah, but you don't either, do ya?"_

_Kiyoomi considers a moment what to say next - is it considered offensive to tell the man you're betrothed to that you don't want to marry him? Is it considered offensive if he doesn't want to marry you either? No one tells you how to react in this situation, no books were written on the subject._

_"Would it offend you if I said no?"_

_"Nah. I can't tell ya I don't love ya and expectcha not ta return the favor," in the moment, Kiyoomi wishes he could love Osamu. He seems like a person who's worth it._

_They shake hands when they part at the palace entrance, parents looking on proudly like they're a match made in heaven. The left sleeve of Osamu's suit rides up slightly, exposing a birthmark in the shape of a nearly perfect crescent moon - it could almost be sweet if Kiyoomi was allowing himself to feel that way._

_"Nice birthmark," falls from his lips without permission - it deserves not to go unnoticed, even if Kiyoomi refuses to consider himself a sentimental. That draws a genuine smile from Osamu, a rarity, at least for Kiyoomi (Osamu, to say the least, seemed less than happy to even be here, much less about the prospect of marrying Kiyoomi. A smile was not a regular guest in their conversation.)_

_"Thanks. 'Tsumu's got one just like it on his right wrist," Osamu examines the mark fondly._

_"Cute."_

\---

Kiyoomi doesn't so much as look in his direction until they reach a room that looks too fancy to be real - look, Atsumu grew up surrounded by luxury, but even his room never looked _this_ decked out. Is this what happens when you're an only child? Should Atsumu have eaten his brother in the womb? No, but then _he'd_ have to marry Kiyoomi. Wait, he's _already_ married to Kiyoomi-

"You're not Osamu," are the first words that come out of his mouth - god he doesn't even turn on the lights first. This man is a menace. A menace who looks really good in direct moonlight, but a menace nonetheless.

Atsumu feels like the universe fucked him over.

"Eh...what?" Atsumu's a horrible liar. 

The only thing he had going for him is that he and Osamu are identical twins. He can feel himself falling apart at the seams, nearly drowning in the anxiety that threatens to tear him apart.

For the first time since he arrived at this palace, Kiyoomi looks at him head-on, dead in the eye as if he can see Atsumu's every secret written across his face plain as day - it's more than a little unnerving. Dude has serious intensity.

"You're not Osamu." 

Atsumu should concede. He's not getting out of this. His options are to tell Kiyoomi and get arrested (probably get yelled at by Osamu too for being a fuck-up) or to wait until Kiyoomi tells someone else and inevitably causes an enormous press scandal that follows him around wherever he goes for the rest of his life. 

A prison record would serve the same function, but the public seems to forget about that easily. Just look at Justin Bieber. He's doing fine.

Atsumu closes his eyes to block out the stress (a tactic that fails miserably). 

He has no out. 

Very briefly, he feels the urge to cry - he tried, he really did. He tried to be a good brother and do what's right and be selfless as fuck but in the end, it failed anyway because, just like everything else in his life, he fucked this up too.

His eyes sting - Osamu deserves a better brother. If the roles were switched, if Atsumu was one who needed bailout because he was in love with his best friend, Osamu would come flying to his aid and he would do a damn good job of it. But Atsumu just couldn't hack it. He's a bad brother.

But he doesn't cry, when he opens hazel eyes they're devoid of tears, a fact he credits to the presence of Kiyoomi. His pride would never have let him get away it. 

Still in the suit he was forced to wear for a photoshoot on the Sakusa's front lawn (because people are obsessed with everything you do when you're famous), he squares his shoulders and stands up straight like his mother always emphasized, keeping his perfect image intact. 

"Yer not wrong, but...yes," he chooses the lesser of two evils, resigning himself to his fate.

"What was the 'but' for."

"Emphasis?"

He almost snorts at his own lack of composure - he doesn't. That would only serve to prove what everyone thinks of him: that he's the useless brother who can't take anything seriously. I mean, he is, but nobody has to know that except him. 

Kiyoomi stares at him, expression still completely unreadable. It's like he's made of fucking stone! How is Atsumu expected to be married to him when he can't even tell what he's thinking in a situation like this? There's not a single hint of confusion, of anger, even of surprise. If you'd asked Atsumu before all this went down, he'd have told you that Kiyoomi Sakusa was a robot.

"So then. You're Atsumu," Atsumu nods, Kiyoomi turns away from him to look out the arching windows framed by fluttering silk curtains that lead to a terrace.

There's something ethereal about how he looks bathed in moonlight, but then again, not one is denying that Kiyoomi Sakusa is a beautiful person. He's cold, chiseled from shimmering marble. Atsumu feels overwhelming fear well up in him - the un-emotionality of it all makes his stomach drop because Atsumu has never done anything without the guiding influence of feelings.

"Why?"

"Uh, why what?" He asks dumbly, not processing the only _why_ there really is to a situation like this. Kiyoomi's glare reflects such a thought in the reflection of the window.

"Why am I married to you when I'm supposed to be married to your brother?" 

Atsumu's eyebrows furrow. 

"Why d'ya care?"

"Because I need to know whether your excuse is good enough to warrant me not telling my parents about this," when he turns back around, Atsumu audibly gulps as if trying to swallow the way his heart beats erratically in his ears - he's such a bad liar. "Literally anything will do because I'm not in the mood to be getting married _again._ But make it entertaining."

Atsumu pushes out his bottom lip in a pout as his brain flip flops between wanting to be defensive and just giving the guy what he wants to avoid catastrophic failure.

"Wait, so my future, an' my brother's, rests in whether or not ya feel like I tell ya a good enough story?" He wonders if the anger displayed in his voice is as prominent in Kiyoomi's ears as it is in his own. 

There's a lightning-fast, almost unnoticeable if you weren't looking close enough crease of annoyance between his eyebrows - the first and most genuine show of emotion Atsumu's seen from him thus far. He almost pats himself on the back for successfully drawing it out of the frigid prince.

"If you want to think of it that way, yes."

"Yer a prick," escapes his lips before he has a chance to stop it - he wonders if the way his eyes widen in abject panic mere seconds after is terribly noticeable.

"Some might say that, yes," Atsumu nearly has a heart attack - why is him being cool with such a low-grade insult so _hot?_ "But humor me."

There's something malicious to his tone that Atsumu doesn't exactly have words for. It makes his chest ache with something akin to fear. He likes to think of himself as self-assured, but in this moment, the ground under him has never felt so unstable before.

"Alright. Fine," Atsumu sucks in a breath. If he's fucked either way, he might as well opt for the truth - mama Miya always did teach her sons to be honest. 

"I'm a loveless bastard y'see. So I don't mind marryin' ya 'cause yer rich an' hot. But 'Samu's got other things on his mind. Like marryin' Sunarin an' settlin' down or whatever. So we kinda did the whole twin swap thing. I just stand in fer him at yer guys' weddin' an' he gets to ride off into the sunset with Sunarin blah blah blah easy peasy."

A pause that feels like it lasts an eternity fills the space between them.

"So you offered to marry me...so your brother wouldn't have to," okay, yeah, Atsumu sees how that could sound offensive, but it really had nothing to do with _him_ per se.

"Okay well, when ya say it like that it sounds bad."

"It is bad. I'm pretty sure that's illegal," okay, this feels like cause for panic. Atsumu's never been the best under pressure, and he's starting to see where that can be a really negative thing.

"I thoughtcha weren't gonna tell anyone!"

"Relax. I'm not," Kiyoomi snaps, and Atsumu shuts his mouth faster than the one time his mother had road rage. "Doesn't it seem like you drew the short straw? Your brother gets to have the love of his life while you're stuck here with me?"

Atsumu's considered the prospective, but he knows that if it was him who was in love with their childhood best friend, Osamu would do the same. He doesn't mind being the selfless one for once.

"Well...I guess I just want 'Samu to be happy," he says simply - things have always been simple between the twins.

They argue until their parents for them to stop, they tuck each other in when one falls asleep studying, they've got each other's backs when no one else does.

"Plus, ya shouldn't put yerself down. Yer not bad to look at."

There's a heavy silence and Atsumu swallows his thoughts. The more he thinks about it the less reasonable it seems for him to have to marry someone he just met while his brother gets true love and other bullshit like that.

In all honesty, he should probably be more upset about this.

But then he remembers the time the three of them snuck out to the amusement park after midnight. While Atsumu was busy scaling the Ferris wheel, Suna had pulled his brother away to the edge of the park where a cobblestone street overlooks the canal. And then Suna had kissed him - soft and slow and sweet - and when he pulled away, Osamu was smiling so big... Atsumu thinks this whole shit show of a wedding might not be bad if Osamu gets to feel that happy for the rest of his life.

Plus, it's not like Atsumu's got someone to kiss _him_ soft and slow and sweet under the distant lights of a city.

"I'll divorce you after my coronation," Kiyoomi breaks the silence most un-gently.

"Seriously?! Way to break the moment."

"There was no moment," Atsumu rolls his eyes. The sheer tonelessness of his voice is off-putting. "Anyway, you'll have to act like you actually care about me until then. Telling my parents about this now would be a shit show."

Atsumu's lips pull into a frown - Kiyoomi cares so little it's almost frightening.

"An' how long'll that be?"

"Three months."

"THREE MONTHS?!"

Atsumu guesses that three months doesn't even come close to how long he'd have to keep up his facade if Kiyoomi had never discovered him, but now he has to be two different people at once - himself with Kiyoomi, Osamu to everyone else - which is a mind-boggling challenge in and of itself. 

There's a moment when he considers bailing. 

But then Osamu's smile comes to mind - they smile different, despite what people think. A smile is one of those things that can't be replicated by someone else, even when you share the same DNA. Thus the twins smile different. Where Atsumu's is obnoxious and slightly smug regardless of circumstance, Osamu's is placid and genuine. 

Atsumu resigns himself to his new life. He can be two people for three months. 

"Alright. Three months," he confirms, the final stroke of a pen against paper as he signs his contract with the devil on a dotted line. 

Kiyoomi glares at him. Atsumu gets some malicious sense of satisfaction from knowing he was the one to elicit such a harsh expression. He pins Atsumu to the spot with sparkling eyes - man, it is _insane_ how pretty someone who makes you utterly infuriated can be. 

"And don't fuck this up, my parents will disown me."


	3. wanna bet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Omi, yer gonna fall so hard fer me.”

Kiyoomi has known since the wedding that Osamu is actually Atsumu.

It was pretty obvious if you're paying attention, but most people don't - yet another one of Kiyoomi's brilliant observations.

There are many things that gave him away - Atsumu's lazier with his accent because he's not trying to sound like the people around him, Atsumu has hazel eyes and Osamu's are gunmetal gray (it's a very slight difference, but it's there), they have different smiles (something Kiyoomi only noticed when Atsumu smiled at him on the altar - not a smile of love, but one of fear).

But the most obvious detail they failed to cover up was their matching birthmarks - or rather, their not matching birthmarks. Kiyoomi had known Osamu wasn't Osamu since they joined hands at the altar.

So why not tell everyone and expose the Miya twins for the frauds they are?

Because, while the Miya family might get the majority of the heat from the press, Kiyoomi's going to be stuck marrying someone else. Again. And the last thing Kiyoomi feels like doing right now is going through another arduous pre-arranged marriage so he can be permanently tied to a person he has no vested interest in.

He can survive Atsumu Miya for three months.

That's what he tells himself for hours on end the first night they sleep together - and no, not like sex, like literally sleeping which is almost worse because it doesn't even feel good and it's boring as fuck.

They're sleeping in the same room. Kiyoomi hates it. Couples shouldn't have to sleep in the same room, it's fucked. His bed is huge but it feels cramped with the presence of another human being beside him.

Atsumu is warm beside him, but it feels uncomfortable, unnatural. Kiyoomi likes sleeping alone, he likes stretching out and having all the space in the world, likes waking up feeling refreshed and rested. And now he's going to be awake all night because Atsumu keeps throwing an arm over him like he's a human teddy bear. It's literally summer. No human on earth should be so clingy.

He jabs at the home button on his phone that lays on the bedside table. The screen illuminates with the time - 4:31 a.m. That's fucking great, is his first thought. He's going to have hella eyebags tomorrow morning and it's going to be all Atsumu's fault. 

The Miya prince throws a muscled arm over Kiyoomi's torso, presses his face into the back of Kiyoomi's neck - this is worse than his worst nightmare. Atsumu is like a human heater. He's literally seconds away from elbowing his "husband" in the stomach.

With an insistent hand, Kiyoomi reaches back to push at the arm tangled around his waist which works fucking brilliantly as it results in Atsumu latching on tighter - Kiyoomi can't breathe. He lets out a frustrated grunt when he hooks a thumb under the crook of Atsumu's elbow and succeeds in moving Atsumu exactly zero inches. He's seriously going to kill this man.

"Atsumu," he grunts. Atsumu lets out a gravelly whine from somewhere deep in his throat, an acknowledgment of sorts filtered in sleep - Kiyoomi won't lie, it's sort of hot, and for a moment that he will swear to anyone lasts less than a millisecond, he wonders about all the other ways he could hear that sound. Less than a millisecond. Mark his words.

"Atsumu," he tries again fruitlessly. Atsumu remains almost completely still, warm breath coming out in short puffs against the nape of Kiyoomi's neck - it's weird. Kiyoomi has never in his life slept in a bed with another person before. It feels like he's suffocating. And when Atsumu slips a leg over his hip, he feels the last straw snap.

His elbow connects with surprisingly firm abs, but it works all the same. Atsumu sputters and coughs, letting out a pained whine as he rolls to the other edge of the bed - Kiyoomi would feel bad if he wasn't so sleep deprived that he's starting to taste the color of darkness.

"What the fuck?!" Is all the warning Kiyoomi gets before there's a foot being planted square in the middle of his back and forcing him off the edge of the bed onto the cold of the hardwood floor. His head smacks on the ground and he narrowly avoids hitting it against the corner of the bedside table - great, this is just the way he wanted this night to go.

A low growl tears itself from Kiyoomi's throat as he jumps back onto the bed, straddling Atsumu's waist. The Miya prince catches his wrists in an iron grip before any real damage can be inflicted - his strength is kind of hot, but Kiyoomi refuses to admit that even to himself - but it certainly doesn't stop Kiyoomi from trying.

"Y'can't do this to me! I'm yer husband!" Atsumu yelps out.

"You're not my husband!"

"I literally am," Kiyoomi stubbornly shoves himself off of Atsumu, a frustrated growl leaving his lips as he flops down on his side of the bed and huffs into the silence of their room. He hates being married, he never wants to get married ever again. It's the absolute worst.

A silence engulfs them, and Kiyoomi stares at the ceiling, regretting every life decision he's ever made as his chest heaves up and down with tormented breaths. He wonders how long he'll be able to live with this before he goes Hannibal Lecter crazy and actually kills Atsumu Miya - he may be pretty but his personality perfectly off-sets that.

This is one of those surreal moments where he can't actually believe this is his life - it feels like the plot of a crappy love story or a hallmark romance movie. He'd rather stick a fork in his eye than face the possibility of an eternity with Atsumu Miya. He prays that three months will move faster than this night is (which shouldn't be a hard bar to meet considering the seconds feels like they're being dragged through molasses).

"You have to sleep on the floor," he decides finally, leaving no room for interpretation. He's only known Atsumu Miya for a few hours (the real Atsumu Miya) and he can already feel incredulous hazel eyes scanning him in shock. Kiyoomi refuses to give him the satisfaction of even so much as glancing sideways.

"What?! I live here now too I ain't sleepin' on the floor," Atsumu gives a half-hearted kick to his shin over the covers, and Kiyoomi's scowl only deepens. The action is so subdued that Kiyoomi can tell he's already half-asleep again.

"Sleep on the floor or I will elbow you again," he grits out, which, for any normal person would be enough of a deterrent not to test his limits. Apparently, Atsumu Miya is anything but normal, because the next words that come out of his mouth are,

"Okay, sure, but if I gotta sleep on the floor, then you do too. Fair is fair."

Kiyoomi almost explodes.

"What? No, that's not how this works. I'm the prince here. I literally live here. This is my room."

"Yeah, an' I'm a prince too, big whoop. Also, I'm yer husband now so we both live here an' this is our room," Kiyoomi is convinced he's living in hell. He almost considers storming out and exposing this whole twin-switch scheme right then and there at four thirty-six in the morning.

But then the idea of having to have another wedding with another guy he barely knows, having to sleep in a bed with another newcomer, having to go through this whole shit show with another virtual stranger, enters his mind, and he barely suppresses a scream of anguish.

"Fine," he decides, opting to be as civil as he can possibly be when he wants to literally kick Atsumu Miya's ass off his bed. "We'll both sleep on the floor. On opposite sides of the bed. And if you wake me up again, I'll literally strangle you."

Kiyoomi spends his first night back home as a newly-wed sleeping on the floor of his own bedroom, staring resentfully at the beautiful sleeping face of his husband. He hates it when people he despises look good. The same thing happened with CJ Kim in the seventh grade. The boy was the devil wearing the clothes of an angel - what seventh-grader has such pronounced cheekbones?

He doesn't get much (or any) sleep that night, but at least he can relax somewhat without Atsumu draping himself over his body like a heated blanket. However, even through the half-sleep he sustains, dread for his future life manages to creep through without permission.

\---

Breakfast starts out an awkward affair, both men grumpy and having gotten little sleep. Not to mention that on top of it all they both still have to pretend they're deeply, madly in love. Which means an abhorrent amount of smiling and a copious amount of physical contact with his "husband". Kiyoomi'salready not a fan of touching people, this is torture.

Despite most likely being raised on the same fine cuisine as Kiyoomi, Atsumu has fruitloops for breakfast, which he eats like a seven-year-old might. When he picks up his water, holds it with both hands, a gesture that Kiyoomi finds unduly childish - he supposes he shouldn't be surprised considering everything about Atsumu Miya is childish. Probably why his parents were so happy when Osamu signed on for the job of marrying him.

Kiyoomi picks at his omelet half-heartedly. His eyes continue to flick up to Atsumu unpermitted. Dark irises scan the Miya prince's every movement - the way his spoon scrapes ungracefully against his China bowl, the bob of his Adam's apple as he gulps down water.

Kiyoomi tells himself it's not charming, and he prides himself on being a realist.

"You eat like an animal," Kiyoomi snarls, giving his best attempt at a disgusted expression - it should be easy for him. Today it feels a little forced, but he wouldn't be able to tell you why if you asked him.

Atsumu's response is to roll his eyes, and Kiyoomi figures he must be just tired enough that it's not worth sparing the energy to clap back. Kiyoomi's only known him for a few days, only been with him for a little over twelve hours, but he somehow knows that where Osamu is dignified, Atsumu almost always snaps.

"What? No witty comeback?"

"Ya don't deserve one," Atsumu grumbles - sleep deprivation is not a good look on him.

A waiter arrives to interrupt their sparkling conversation, setting down two plates of food, one for each of them. Kiyoomi had no appetite for his first plate of food, it's not like he's going to be able to stomach a second (not being able to eat when under stress has always made Kiyoomi feel snobbish and wasteful, but his appetite has always had horrible temper).

Kiyoomi grunts out a cough, a silent command to keep up the act in the presence of another living person.

"Honey, you look stunning," Atsumu scoffs at the sarcastic compliment.

"Likewise, babe," Kiyoomi suppresses the urge to kick his "husband" under the table - not a very husband-ly thing to do, but can you blame him?

Sparing a glance at the waiter - his name is Carl (he's from Britain and has a daughter in college. He tried to set them up before Kiyoomi came out as super gay) - Kiyoomi finds a look halfway between confusion and adoration in his eyes. It makes the young prince nauseous.

Nothing against Carl, but Kiyoomi absolutely despises the idea of people fawning over him and Atsumu. When he'd come out as gay, he was really hoping that would mean a stark lack of arranged marriages in the foreseeable future. Turns out it had quite the opposite effect.

Carl makes himself scarce, leaving them bathed in silence once again for what feels like an eternity - Kiyoomi thinks it's almost peaceful...at least until Atsumu starts laughing like a child.

The musical sound starts somewhere low in his chest, bubbling to the tip of his tongue as it gets brighter and louder until suddenly it's filling the whole room and every measurable corner of Kiyoomi's conscious thought. Kiyoomi thinks that if there was any possibility he could at all like Atsumu Miya in any fashion, that this would be a laugh he could fall in love with.

But since he doesn't, he hopes that slapping the label of 'annoying and screechy' to the new sound will work effectively enough in mitigating any actual feelings toward the Miya prince.

"What?"

"Nothin'..." Atsumu huffs out between breath-stealing giggles - it's not cute it's not cute it's not cute it's not cute. "Jus'...yer more scared of marryin' another dude than y'are of callin' me 'honey'."

"I hate both equally as much. This is just more convenient," Kiyoomi deadpans sipping disappointedly at his water - he wants coffee, which is, surprisingly, a rare resource in the royal palace. He knows it's for his health, but he's in peak physical shape. He deserves some caffeine after his first sleepless night with his husband (not nearly as romantic or sensual as it sounds or should've been).

"Eventually yer gonna like me," Atsumu smirks at him - neither of them believes that's true, but it seems like Atsumu wants to play a game.

Kiyoomi will bite. Just for the fun of it. It's not like he has many other things to entertain him. Between interviews and press conferences, and traveling to meet foreign diplomats, everything in his life is boring. Except for Atsumu. Despite what one may think, Kiyoomi Sakusa would take pain over boredom any day. It's human nature.

"Not a chance."

"Wanna bet?" That devious smirk should be an obvious warning sign. Kiyoomi ignores it.

"Sure, what do you want to wager?" Bad Kiyoomi.

"Hmmm...how about...if ya still super hate me at the end a' this month, I'll sleep on the floor until we get divorced," Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose at his volume. They're completely alone, but the threat of someone overhearing them is palpable. "An' if ya don't...if ya fall in love with me."

Kiyoomi grimaces at the mere suggestion.

"Then I get one favor from ya. Andja gotta do it," Kiyoomi feels like this is a bad deal - the undefined nature of Atsumu's payout is frightening in and of itself.

Kiyoomi takes a moment to consider the offer - this could go really well for him. Plus, if Atsumu is willingly volunteering to sleep on his hardwood floors for two-thirds of their time together, then who is Kiyoomi to refuse? It's summer for another three months. Kiyoomi won't survive if Atsumu insists on forcibly cuddling him (Kiyoomi doesn't cuddle).

But on the other hand, if he loses- Wait, he can't possibly fall in love with Atsumu Miya because, I mean, like, have you seen his personality? It's like if someone put all the worst non-psychopathic traits into one person and slapped it into a gorgeous body. Stupid. Life is so unfair.

This is a win-win situation. Or, just a win. He still has to spend three months with Atsumu, which in itself is an automatic loss.

"Okay, fine," Kiyoomi feels like he's selling his soul to a demon, but he's also a man of un-matched pride, which means that now that he's said it, he's locked into this death-pact.

"Deal," Atsumu grins, lop-sided and smug, dropping his spoon into his bowl with a clink and leaning back in victory. "Omi, yer gonna fall so hard fer me."

"Don't call me Omi, sit up in your chair like a normal person," Kiyoomi flattens his expression as best he can. He will admit there's something exhilarating about this new chapter in his life, the chapter that has the added flavor of Atsumu Miya. Kiyoomi's always been a bit competitive.

"Not a chance Omi. 'S parta my charm."

It's in that moment that Kiyoomi knows he's made a bad decision, but it's a fun bad decision. Because despite the luxury and the good food and the expensive education, nothing in his life has ever been so exciting. Kiyoomi's looking for trouble, and he's doing it quite intentionally.

\---


	4. holy fucking shit y'were smilin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My apologies, would you like to go get hammered and have sex in a hot tub?"

The beach house is as pretty as it is excessive, and Atsumu's not having a good time of it. 

Look, he likes fancy stuff, sure, but they were literally just in an enormous gilded castle with more square footage than Buckingham Palace. Why do they need to be here? Not to mention that the fact that the two princes are waited on hand and foot takes all the fun out of traveling. 

Atsumu hates organization, but he will admit there's something oddly satisfying about unpacking your things into a new place, making it your temporary home.

"So...why're we here?" 

They're standing on one of many terraces that overlook the ocean (this feels a copious amount of space to be occupied by only two people). Kiyoomi looks as deadpan as ever (although, Atsumu now knows he has a whopping _two_ emotions: anger and absolute nothing). 

"Honeymoon," he states with the enthusiasm of a rock - Atsumu doesn't blame him. 

The only thing he feels they've accomplished by being shipped out to this (admittedly very beautiful) island is to extract themselves so far from civilization that Kiyoomi could murder him in his sleep and no one would hear him scream. 

Atsumu scrunches up his nose at the not-unlikely possibility. 

"Why?" 

"Because we're married." 

"Oh...right." 

Atsumu can't say he's exactly excited about the idea of spending a full week alone with Kiyoomi, but if there's one positive thing this will bring, it's that he'll get a chance to make good on his bet. Kiyoomi Sakusa is going to fall for him like dominos to gravity. Granted, he doesn't have a plan about how to pull this off, but his trademark strategy for life is just to wing it. 

Love can't be that much different, right?

"Why? Scared I'll murder you and hide your body?" If Atsumu didn't know better, he might actually think Kiyoomi's being serious (look, it's not exactly easy to tell when he somehow manages to move literally none of his facial muscles). 

"Actually a little bit, yeah." 

"Relax. I can't do that," Atsumu won't admit it, but he breathes a sigh of relief. "I'm the only other one here. People would know it's me. I'm the only suspect." 

"Well, that totally made me feel better," as always, sarcasm is his weapon of choice. Let's all be honest here, it's a whole lot easier than saying what you actually think. Atsumu knows how that goes and it never ends well. 

There's a pause before Atsumu gets bored of looking at nothing and peels away from the terrace. Atsumu is a restless soul at his core, and he'd always promised himself that if he ever got married, he'd have a baller honeymoon with zero boring moments whatsoever. 

By the way this whole week started out, Atsumu is starting to realize that the only fun part of his "honeymoon" will be fucking with Kiyoomi - maybe he can make a game out of it...

He travels to the decked-out as hell kitchen - despite what one might think, Atsumu actually thoroughly enjoys cooking for himself. Osamu taught him when they were in high school (his dream as a kid was always to become a chef before he realized that he was basically forced to become king someday considering Atsumu is completely useless at diplomacy). 

Atsumu's always felt bad about that. It's not like royals have many options in life when it comes to careers. Their lives are pretty much planned out from the day they're born, a fact that leaves little option for hopes or dreams. And once he becomes king, Osamu will spend all day answering letters and meeting with foreign diplomats- If there was anything at all Atsumu could do for him, he would. 

If there's anyone who deserves to follow up on their childhood dreams, it's his brother. 

He guesses he's doing the best he can with the whole 'marrying your husband for you' thing. 

The fridge is fully stocked, a fact Atsumu appreciates considering how expensive fresh produce is - when you grow up filthy rich, you never really realize how expensive stuff is. Atsumu's "awakening", if you want to call it that, happened when he went over to his former teammate Aran's house. They went grocery shopping to make a meal for his Nan who was coming over and _damn,_ when you're on a budget and looking for fruits and vegetables, 1500.00 yen does not go that far.

His mind floods with all the dishes Osamu had taught him how to make, but his appetite protests, so he settles for cutting up some watermelon instead. 

"What are you doing?" Atsumu almost has a heart attack when he looks up from his cutting and finds Kiyoomi standing, staring at him from across the bar - okay, maybe his quiet walking is something they'll have to work on. You know, to prevent Atsumu from going into spontaneous cardiac arrest at the age of twenty-four. 

"Jesus Omi. Why'dya walk so damn quiet?" Kiyoomi doesn't gratify his use of the nickname with a response - Atsumu had expected such behavior. "An' fer yer information, I'm cuttin' watermelon." 

"You know, someone else could do it if you hadn't asked everyone to leave," Atsumu rolls his eyes at that (he'll admit that living surrounded by luxury is nice but there comes a certain age in a persons life when they'd like to be able to cut their own watermelon like a fucking adult). 

"Yeah, well maybe I wanna do it myself because I'm a fully grown man," he finishes up cutting the perfectly ripened fruit into neat little squares (not quite as perfect as Osamu's but he refuses to admit that). He picks up a piece and tosses it to his "husband". "Here, have some." 

The cube of fleshy fruit hits Kiyoomi in the head and he reels back like he's been shot as watermelon guts and juice leak down the side of his face. Atsumu barely resists the urge to burst out laughing - he manages to contain his reaction to an I-didn't-mean-to-do-that-but-it-worked-out-well grin. 

"What the fuck?"

"Y'were s'posed to catch it not just let it bounce off yer face!" Atsumu's voice is half-tinted with a laugh, and Kiyoomi's scowl communicates all the information Atsumu really needs to know that his amusement is not reciprocated. "That's what yer s'posed to do when someone throws somethin' ta ya!" 

"You don't throw food at people! That's not how it works!" Kiyoomi hisses and Atsumu's actually laughing now. He's not a bad person, he swears. He just can't help it. What is his reaction supposed to be when the always-composed Kiyoomi Sakusa stands in front of him dripping watermelon juice and blushing red with embarrassment? It's a little pretty. 

"I was tryina be nice an' offer ya some," Atsumu's giggling off the hook now, unable to stop even if he wanted to as Kiyoomi makes his way around the side of the counter.

The inky-haired man grabs a fistful of the fleshy fruit and crushes it against Atsumu's forehead. His lips part in shock as the sickly sweet fruit juice drips down his face and into his open mouth - who knew Kiyoomi Sakusa could be so vengeful? If Atsumu's being honest, it's kind of a hot look on him. 

"Are ya serious?" Atsumu runs a tongue across his bottom lip, tasting the sweetness of it - _Okay Omi, let's fight._

Atsumu grabs another cube of sweet fruit and chucks it at Kiyoomi from point-blank range, causing it to splatter against his alabaster skin, staining it deliciously pink - no, Atsumu does definitely not want to lick the syrupy sweetness off the razor-sharp edge of his jawline.

Their fight is sweet and short-lived. Atsumu squishes handfuls of watermelon between his fingers, aiming for Kiyoomi's stupid-perfect face, Kiyoomi seems to thoroughly enjoy smushing the juicy fruit against Atsumu's skin up close. They duck behind furniture, using expensive leathers and newly polished woods as their shields. 

Atsumu's giggling like a maniac, hot tears of laughter pooling in hazel eyes and blurring his vision of Kiyoomi - okay, maybe this honeymoon won't be so boring after all. 

By the time they're finished, they've managed to cause mass carnage. The entire kitchen and a significant portion of the open-floorplan living room are splattered with the innards of a watermelon. 

Atsumu is laughing so hard that he can't breathe and can't think straight and his side hurts and- And the breathing issue gets a whole lot harder when Kiyoomi looks up at him and is, of all things, _smiling._

Because _oh,_ he looks so good covered in watermelon guts it's absolutely insane and he's _smiling_ and his smile is so pretty, lips full and shiny. And _oh god,_ Atsumu kind of really wants to kiss him because if they were actually a couple and not just pretending to be for the cameras, this would be the kind of situation where Atsumu would kiss him senseless and lick at his lips and taste their sweetness and-

And Kiyoomi flattens his expression as fast as humanly possible. Atsumu wishes he could apply the same treatment to his heart. 

"Holy fucking shit y'were smilin'," Atsumu points out belatedly - he doesn't need to wait for Kiyoomi's answer to know how quickly and adamantly he'll deny such an accusation, but he feels that just this once it's worth it. 

"I wasn't," quick. Adamant. 

"No, y'were I saw it. Don't lie ta me," Atsumu warns the pretty prince, resisting the temptation to reach out and swipe some remnants of the fleshy fruit from his lips - they look so soft, it's almost irresistible. If Atsumu were a weaker man, he would've caved. "Y'don't gotta be embarrassed Omi. Ya gotta really _beautiful_ smile, _babe._ " 

Atsumu knows exactly what effect his taunting will have, which is exactly why he feels much inclined to keep going - man, playing Kiyoomi Sakusa is so much more fun than his normal monotonous life. God, and he was worried this was going to be _boring._

"Don't call me Omi, take a shower. You're covered in watermelon guts," Kiyoomi turns away - Atsumu has a sneaking suspicion that it's to hide another smile, but he's not one to make baseless hypotheses, so he temporarily reserves judgment. "I'm taking one too, so if you contaminate me with your lowgrade hygiene, I'll kill you. Literally."

"Omi, how scandalous, y'wanna shower with me?" Atsumu sees the chance so he takes it - hey, it was kind of a perfect setup, can you blame him? 

"There are multiple showers in this house you detestable _urchin_ ," Kiyoomi Sakusa does not mince words, a fact that only makes this more fun for Atsumu.

"Hey. Was worth a try." 

"Yeah, well, _try_ anything like that again and I'll punch you in the face."

\---

"Omi, wanna watch a movie with me?" You know what, if this is his honeymoon, the only one he might ever have, then he's damn well going to spend it how he likes. It took them three hours to clean up all the watermelon guts off the furniture (thank god for hardwood floors). Atsumu wants to do something fun. 

The look on Kiyoomi's face tells Atsumu that there's no possible way the share the same opinion. 

"What? I didn't even say anythin'. I'm just tryina do something fun insteada...readin'..."

He steps around behind Kiyoomi, leaning on the back of his chair where he sits at the dining table. His nose scrunches instinctively upon seeing the familiar format of a news article scrawled across the screen of Kiyoomi's laptop. "...Articles on global politics? Omi what the fuck?"

Kiyoomi doesn't even so much as glance in his direction, glasses perched on the tip of his nose - he actually looks stunning in glasses. Atsumu can't fathom _why_ he doesn't wear them more often. 

"This is what we're supposed to be doing. It's not like we're on a real honeymoon. Our job is to be up to date on current events."

He's not wrong about that, but Atsumu draws a heaving sigh nonetheless - there is quite literally nothing more boring than politics, in his not-so-humble opinion. It kind of sucks that he was born into a family where he has no choice but to be part of them.

And oh, he knows Kiyoomi probably takes his responsibilities seriously just like a member of any royal family should, but Osamu's got that part in the bag (perks of having a twin). Atsumu's free to be a total screw-off until the end of his days- not that he will. He always liked the idea of being a volleyball player, even got an offer from a pro team in another country fresh out of high school. But _Ma_ said _no_ because he has _responsibilities._

(Apparently, princes aren't destined to be pro athletes. Atsumu calls bullshit, but what does he know? He's the dumb brother.) 

Biggest let down of his life other than having to marry Omi.

"But that's _boring,_ " he whines, high-pitched and petulant as he always is. "An' we _are_ on a real honeymoon. Just 'cause we hate each other don't make it not true. We're s'posed to be doin' some honeymoon _stuff._ Stuff that's _fun-_ "

Kiyoomi sends him a sharp glare that Atsumu has deduced by now means _go away_ in not so gentle terms. But Atsumu has always hated following orders - just as one might expect when everything in your life is somehow transformed into a command to be executed without complaint, Atsumu has developed a stark aversion to being bossed around. 

"My apologies, would you like to go get hammered and have sex in a hot tub?" Kiyoomi makes it _so easy._

"Actually yeah that sounds really nice-"

Then there's a hand that smells like vanilla and lavender colliding with his face, pushing him away with surprising strength - hot, but Atsumu files that thought away for another time. He resists the urge to childishly lick Kiyoomi's palm. It always works with Osamu, but he gets the feeling that Kiyoomi's not going to take so kindly to it. 

"Oh _shut up_ and leave me alone. I _hate_ you," Atsumu doesn't doubt it. Atsumu would honestly be acting the same way if he wasn't a sadistic dick. 

"I was _fuckin' with ya,_ " he leans over to grab his wallet off the bar, extracting a bill and slapping it down on the table next to Kiyoomi. Atsumu is a sarcastic little shit, if you haven't noticed already. "Here, go buy yerself a sense a' humor."

He's about to make his dope-ass walkout, making his way toward the couch, when feels the currency he just presented to his "husband" hit him in the back of the head, now crumpled up. 

When Atsumu whirls around, Kiyoomi is still staring at his computer having not lifted his eyes even a centimeter to check where he's throwing. Atsumu will admit, Kiyoomi's got impressive aim without having to actually _see_ what (or who) he's aiming for. It's almost scary (he could definitely inflict real damage with a skillset like that).

"Damn, didja throw that without lookin'?" Atsumu may be stubborn as fuck, but talent like that deserves to at least be commented on. Kiyoomi doesn't look at him or even show any hint of pride at having his gift recognized. In fact, he even grimaces somewhat as if Atsumu reminding him of it is a punishment. 

"Forced archery lessons. Worst three hours of my day until I was fourteen." 

Atsumu is pulled between wanting to feel bad for prying and wanting to pry further - who knew Kiyoomi Sakusa had layers?

For now, he settles for mulling over Kiyoomi's new-found talent while he watches Godzilla for the nth time. He'll have plenty of time to explore the man that lies beneath that equal parts beautiful and cold exterior. But later. Right now he wants to watch an enormous lizard destroy/protect a city. 

\---

Atsumu falls asleep on the couch at twelve-thirty, movie still blaring obnoxiously in the background. Kiyoomi sends him a sharp glare for falling asleep in a place both undignified and improper - Atsumu will never see it, but it gives him solace to know his low opinion of his "husband" is still very much intact. 

For the briefest moment, Kiyoomi considers laughing at him for being weak - falling asleep at midnight? _Weak_. But then he takes note of the heaviness of his eyes and multiple yawns he's had to stifle in the past few minutes (maybe he's weak too). 

With reluctance, he shuts his laptop, the absence of blue light bathing the room in darkness save for the credits cascading down the TV screen. He rubs his eyes - should he have considered at least letting himself relax a little bit? Maybe. But he refuses to turn into Atsumu and he's definitely not going to admit that his head hurts from staring at his computer for so long. Atsumu would have a field day.

Kiyoomi pushes himself to his feet debating in his head whether or not it's worth the effort to make himself tea right now - he ultimately decides it's not, but only because the idea of waiting for water to boil sounds like torture. 

Walking past the couch, his eyes travel without permission to Atsumu splayed out lazily across it. Kiyoomi stops walking unintentionally - like seeing a pretty flower on the side of the road, your body stops all non-essential functions in order to process its beauty. 

The Miya prince's body is stretched out in possibly the least comfortable position for a human to sleep in - on his stomach with his neck craned to the side (he's going to have a horrible neck ache when he wakes up), one foot propped up on the arm of the sofa. 

And his face isn't ethereal like most people are when they sleep, there's no peace present. His eyebrows scrunch, his bottom lip pushes out all pouty, his dark hair is splayed out messily. He looks petulant as always. It's adorable.

_He's kind of pretty when he's not being annoying._

_Wait- no, fuck._

Kiyoomi's body jolts back into motion. He's experiencing one of those moments that you wish more than life you could take back, rewind back to a time when your detestable "husband" was ugly and unappealing. 

_It's okay,_ he tells himself as he slips into the first bedroom he remembers the door to. Kiyoomi's always been good at compartmentalizing his thoughts. _This is fine._

This is just going to have to go on the list of things he can literally never tell anyone about, a list that only contains two items other than this one. 

(The first being the time at his junior prom that he told his date, Marissa, that he was high to avoid having to mention the fact that he's gay. The second being the time he ran into a sliding glass door when he was at his friend's apartment. Everyone has a list like that. This is fine.)

As Kiyoomi changes into sleeping clothes and goes through his meticulous dental hygiene and skincare routine, he compiles all the logical reasons for his little detour regarding sleeping-Atsumu into a neatly formed mental list. 

He's tired, people find people they hate attractive all the time, physical attraction is a purely surface-level biological reaction, Dopamine just trying to find a way to fuck with him. 

He decides to stop dwelling on the issue when he gets to the skincare portion of his routine (there are some parts of it that can cause considerable damage to his eyes if he's not careful. And Atsumu is not worth going blind over). And the moment has almost completely fled from his tired mind by the time he flops most ungracefully into a ( _thankfully_ ) Atsumu-free bed. 

God, it feels so nice to have so much space. Everyone everywhere should sleep completely alone on their own little island of sheets and pillows. In Kiyoomi's not so humble opinion, there is nothing more satisfying than bonelessly slumping into a bed that's all your own. 

You have sovereignty over your own little kingdom of sleep, even if it's just for a few heavenly hours. Kiyoomi's never particularly cared about the idea of being king, the way he's about to achieve such power makes the concept even more unappealing. But there's something about being the king of his own island of relaxation that makes him smile (on the inside, of course). 

He's halfway to meeting sleep at its front door when the image of Atsumu's toned calf hanging off the edge of the sofa comes to mind. He's not wearing a blanket. He's going to be freezing. 

Kiyoomi's eyes shoot open and he glares at the ceiling, directing his resentment at the fluttering canopy that surrounds the four-post bed. 

_I don't care,_ he tells his brain. 

_Uh, yeah we do,_ his brain screams back. 

Everyone wants to be a good person, and Kiyoomi thinks that everyone should want to be a good person. But at his core, he's a massive hypocrite as he finds that it's actually quite a lot easier to be a bad person and let everyone else figure out how to make society work. 

_Fuck being a good person. Atsumu can freeze._

After a moment of fumbling with his thoughts, Kiyoomi rips the silky covers off with a vengeance, muttering soft curses under his breath as he stomps to the living room where Atsumu still sleeps like a rock. His feet are freezing against the hardwood, he pouts the entire time as if his petulance will make any significant difference. 

_He won't even notice or care,_ he reminds himself resentfully as he snatches a soft blanket from the bottom level of the coffee table. 

_This is a pointless action and you're wasting your energy,_ is what he tells himself as he haphazardly drapes the blanket over Atsumu's sleeping figure. It slips slightly off his right foot and Kiyoomi heaves a long-suffering sigh. 

_Don't go back, it's just a blanket. He's not even going to thank you for it,_ he chides as he turns back to settle the blanket over Atsumu's exposed foot - look, waking up with one cold foot and one warm one is a disgusting feeling. 

The adjustment causes the soft material to slip from Atsumu's shoulder and Kiyoomi closes his eyes, summoning the willpower to walk away from his mild OCD and just _let it be like that._

_Okay, I'm done. For real, I'm done now. I'm going to bed and I'm sleeping and he can just deal with having one shoulder that's cold and one shoulder that's not._

He goes back to fold the blanket over Atsumu's shoulder. 

_\---_


	5. there's a biological explanation for this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm cold an' lonely OmiOmi!"

Kiyoomi sees Atsumu shirtless for the first time on the third day of their "honeymoon" (if "husband" is in quotation marks, so is "honeymoon").

Kiyoomi doesn't mean to see him but, sadly, he does.

Atsumu has the attention span of a goldfish which means he gets bored in like three fucking seconds, and since he's athlete as fuck, he just has to be doing something active _all the damn time._ He took a morning run, did, like, a thousand pushups, annoyed Kiyoomi for three hours straight, and somehow still has the energy to go swimming at ten-thirty in the evening.

Kiyoomi loves and cherishes his own muscles, especially since he went through years of (boring as all hell) physical training to get them, so he appreciates that Atusmu wants to stay in shape. But it would be much appreciated if he could manage to do it just a little less loudly. Or, preferably, with a shirt on.

(Look, Kiyoomi has will power, but when Atsumu momentarily steps out of the pool with water dripping down the v-line of his hips, Kiyoomi literally can't _not_ stare. He's responsible, not blind. And also very super gay, which is a factor, believe it or not. Even for him.)

Kiyoomi's sitting at the bar reading about Belarus when Atsumu steps into the kitchen, dripping water, pretty much naked except for his swimsuit. Kiyoomi almost chokes on air.

Washboard abs flex with every slight movement under smooth tanned skin, Kiyoomi wants to touch toned delts and swollen biceps, run his tongue along the dip of his v-line. And of course Atsumu just has to be drinking from a glass of water like he's a model in a commercial- Kiyoomi's not staring, but maybe he is just a little bit. Maybe it's hard not to when Atsumu sort of has the body of a god.

Kiyoomi's haze is broken when Atsumu turns to him - inky-black eyes stick to the words of the article he had been reading like it's the only thing in the world he sees. The words jumble together though, processing thought replaced with the way Atsumu's abs flex when he twists to set the water glass on the counter behind him.

"Omi y'should swim with me!"

Based on the words that leave Atsumu's mouth and the fact that he's smiling a true smile instead of that stupid devilish smirk he wears when he thinks he's won some sort of competition completely in his head, Kiyoomi suspects that Atsumu didn't catch the way he was not-staring.

He thanks every deity he knows the name of for that fact. Life is already hard enough living in such close quarters with a man for whom he feels something close to hatred for, but add in the fact that he's hot and _loves_ teasing an inordinate amount, and you get a recipe for Kiyoomi throwing himself off the third-story terrace.

"No."

"C'mon _Omi,_ " he whines. A crease between his eyebrows forms as they turn upward, bottom lip pushing out in sync and giving him the impression of a lost puppy dog. "'S not a crime to have fun sometimes. All ya've done the entire time we've been here is stare at yer computer."

"No, I also got drenched in fruit juice because you're an asshole," Kiyoomi's tone is bright, a sarcastic smile that's so small it barely even counts as such graces his lips.

"Oh whatever y'were smilin'. I saw ya," Atsumu's eyes narrow - pretty hazel eyes that Kiyoomi will tell anyone look like normal boring brown eyes. Atsumu slumps on his elbows on the counter, flopping his chin into his hands as he stares at Kiyoomi (he can feel the Miya prince's gaze from across the bar). "So, yer gonna swim with me then?"

Kiyoomi glares up at him, willing his eyes to stay where they are stuck on Atsumu's eyes instead of traveling down his chiseled torso - it's not weird that Kiyoomi really wants to touch him, that's a normal thing for people to want to do when they see rippling muscles.

"What part of 'no' do you not understand?"

"The 'no' part of it," Atsumu rolls his eyes like it's the obvious answer. "Omi, swimmin' is the best. Plus it's dark outside an' no one'll see ya, if that's what yer worried about it."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Kiyoomi states flatly - look, he's hot and he's hardly afraid to admit it. Years of taking multiple sports and weekly physical training since the age of thirteen have toned his body nicely. What he's worried about is the fact that he might enjoy himself.

Or worse, that he won't. Though he supposes he's enjoyed very little of what's supposed to be a relaxing vacation from his normal prince duties.

"Then _what_ is it, Omi? Seriously, I'm lonely," Atsumu's whining could be cute if it weren't like a cheese grater for the ears - how does he think this will _ever_ convince anyone of anything? "An' yer literally the only other person here. _Please-_ "

"Will you shut up if I say yes?" Kiyoomi sends Atsumu a sharp glare. If looks could kill, Atsumu would be in a thousand tiny pieces like that fruit ninja game. Although, Kiyoomi will admit that there is something charming about the way his face lights up like a Christmas tree. Whatever else you can say about Atsumu Miya, his smile is lovely.

"Cross my heart and hope ta die."

"Well then we're hoping for the same thing," Atsumu ignores him, merely smiling quite proudly to himself as he practically skips back out to the pool. 

Atsumu's hair is still wet, dripping stray water in thin streams down the toned muscles of his back - Kiyoomi wants to feel the way they move under his fingertips- Then Kiyoomi's runs through all the possible scenarios that would end with him touching Atsumu's back the way he wants to, and his mind momentarily shuts down.

Atsumu leaves him, shutting the sliding glass door, and Kiyoomi fails to contain his coughing fit. It lasts until his throat is sore as fuck, he leans his head on folded arms and breathes in a deep sigh that isn't nearly as cleansing as it should be.

He reminds himself that this is a perfectly normal reaction to have to someone's body, especially when their body is _perfect._ Would you call a beautiful piece of art ugly just because you hate the artist? No. Therefore, it's okay for Kiyoomi to really want to stare at his abs. 

After a moment of just sitting there, blinking away the images that play out behind his eyes, Kiyoomi pushes himself to his feet with purpose, nodding to himself as he reminds himself of all the reasons he hates Atsumu Miya.

All of his personality traits rest on one side of the scale, perfectly formed abs rest on the other. That's a balance Kiyoomi feels secure in. Who the fuck cares if he's hot? Hot people are assholes all the time. Just take Kiyoomi as an example.

\---

Kiyoomi stares at the turquoise water with apprehension. He hasn't genuinely swum since he was seventeen - he quit swimming lessons cold turkey after his mean Russian instructor called him a 'Pansy' for the nth time. Kiyoomi's parents hadn't seen the problem with it at the time. Kiyoomi's parents didn't know he was gay at the time either.

Every time he'd ever been called a homophobic slur by Demetri Korokov runs through his head like a highlight reel of his pain as he stares at the warped tiles of the pool floor. He's not traumatized or anything, but the memories are enough to take out any genuine enjoyment of it.

People quit horseback riding because they break something all the time. Kiyoomi quit swimming because he was consistently having a core piece of his identity turned into a slur. Same difference. 

He's halfway through the "fun" moments of his rather short swimming career when he feels a firm hand planted in between his shoulder blades. Without any hint of a warning, he falls face-first into the water.

Chlorine stings his eyes and his nasal cavity burns with the foreign substance - he has the good sense to stop all breathing before his lungs fill up with pool-water. Kiyoomi can hold his breath for up to seven minutes, he's not worried. Which is actually the only reason he decides to freak Atsumu out by merely floating there.

It takes a minute - a minute and thirty-seven seconds, to be exact - but eventually, Atsumu's jumping into the pool next to him, placing a hand on his chest and forcing Kiyoomi to the surface of the water.

"Fuck Omi don't drown!" Atsumu's eyes are wide and doe-like, one hand gripping Kiyoomi's shoulder, the other still held over his heart as if checking that it's still beating - it's a surprisingly tender gesture, and the split-second Kiyoomi lives in it feels warm.

Warm for a lot of reasons - because Atsumu's touch is inordinately gentle with him considering how much they're supposed to hate each other, because Atsumu looks genuinely worried, no hint of joking or sarcasm, because Kiyoomi knows the Miya prince can feel the way his heart beats beneath his fingertips. 

Kiyoomi takes a shallow breath to refill his lungs, and the snap back to reality is immediate - he thanks his brain for not being one to get easily distracted. Atsumu's still looking at him like he's about to spontaneously keel over.

"The fuck was that?!" Atsumu is back in an instant, planting a fist lightly in Kiyoomi's left pectoral muscle. His pouty glare is back as a fixture of their relationship, Kiyoomi feels the universe realign itself.

"You're the one who pushed me," Kiyoomi reasons with a shrug, if only to push Atsumu's buttons a little bit. There's an almost smirk pulling at his lips but he doesn't let it bloom to fruition because that would be admitting Atsumu makes him feel, at the very least, _something._

"Yer so fuckin' dramatic y'know that?" Atsumu chides like he isn't the biggest drama queen on the face of planet earth. "What if I didn't save ya? Y'woulda just drowned?" Atsumu throws up his hands for emphasis - Kiyoom bites back another smile.

They play some two-person version of water volleyball (which Kiyoomi hadn't even known was a thing until Atsumu entered his life). It's not particularly exciting because there's literally no element of competition involved in passing a ball back and forth - not that that was ever an obstacle for either of them.

It's not so much that they feel the need to compete with each other on a personal level. More like they're both incredibly competitive people who both happen to hold a certain level of distaste for one another. Also because Atsumu used to play volleyball and all of Kiyoomi's ideas were _"Boring Omi boring boring boring."_ Atsumu really can be an insufferable brat sometimes (or all the time).

Atsumu, though Kiyoomi would never deign to admit it, actually does have a killer arm. Which is what he uses to nearly break Kiyoomi's face in half with a beach ball - he catches it a few inches from his face, but it's enough to put the fear of god in him (or in this case, the fear of Atsumu).

Kiyoomi doesn't bother with a verbal retort, instead scrunching up his eyebrows and choosing to go the route he always does: vengeance.

Kiyoomi doesn't consider himself a vengeful person, but when life leaves you with little other options, Kiyoomi has learned that revenge is one of the healthiest motivators. And hell if Atusmu Miya doesn't inspire an inordinate amount of rage in Kiyoomi.

Drawing his arm back, Kiyoomi tosses the ball with his opposite hand, slamming it across the pool at Atsumu Miya who doesn't have the good foresight to guard his hands with his face. The ball hits him square in the nose, Kiyoomi's restrained laugh is not half as restrained as he thinks it is - Atsumu can hear it all the way across the pool. If they had any other neighbors, they would be pissed right now.

"Ow, what the fuck?!" His nose is red. _It's not cute it's not cute it's not cute._ Look, it's not cute. It's a sign of injury that, if it were any worse, they should probably have checked out. But for the moment, since Atsumu just rubs at it insistently, Kiyoomi allows himself an almost laugh that rumbles from somewhere deep in his throat.

"You were supposed to catch it, not just let it bounce off your face," Kiyoomi parrots from the first day of their "honeymoon". And then Atsumu's laughing that pretty laugh - as bright and beautiful as Kiyoomi will tell you it's annoying. You can't help the reaction you have to someone's voice, their laugh, their body, their smile, Kiyoomi tells himself.

What you can help is how you feel about someone. And how Kiyoomi _feels_ about Atsumu Miya is something he doesn't foresee changing any time soon.

"I hate you!" But he's smiling when he says it so Kiyoomi guesses it's a half-baked sentiment at best.

\---

Kiyoomi takes at least ten minutes to fall asleep - he knows, he's timed himself, obviously - but his stupid game of water volleyball (he's going to have to google whether or not that's a real sport in the morning) seems to have accelerated the process. If there's one good thing about being forced to spend time with Atsumu Miya, it's that, at the very least, it wears him out. 

Sleep is nearly ready to drown him in its soothing waves when the door to his room swings open with an obnoxiously loud crashing sound. Kiyoomi is awake and in a sitting position before he even has the chance to process what's happening. 

When he sees the person nightmares are made of standing in his doorway, he flops back down onto the mattress with a belated sigh. He grabs a pillow from the other side of the bed, smushing it over his ears - maybe if he can't hear Atsumu, he'll just go away. 

"I'm cold an' lonely OmiOmi!" Atsumu whines at _three in the morning_ as he slips into Kiyoomi's bedroom. Kiyoomi was wrong. Atsumu's voice is like a thousand little needles piercing his ears. Or maybe just one big ice pick. Either way, it is effective in dismantling his pillow barrier within seconds. 

Kiyoomi groans, long and drawn out as if Atsumu's stabbed him. He might as well have. He's already living hell on earth. You can't get much more dead than that. 

Atsumu hugs a pillow he brought from his own room - they'd agreed to sleep in separate bedrooms for the week seeing as they have the luxury.

Kiyoomi will admit there's something cute about his sleep-laced, whiny demeanor that makes itself present as he shoves his face into the soft feather pillow he holds. His hair is slightly mussed, hazel eyes are bleary with sleep in a way that could almost be considered beautiful, broad shoulders droop.

But Kiyoomi glares at him nonetheless, rolling over in his bed with narrowed eyes to prop himself up on his elbow.

"You're doing this to fuck with me," it's the truth, he knows. Atsumu doesn't do anything unless it's to annoy the living fuck out of his "husband".

"Yeah, fer sure, but are ya really gonna make me leave?" Atsumu is a fool to think that puppy dog eyes have any effect on Kiyoomi. He learned to block out like, a solid seventy percent of his emotions by the age of fifteen - look, even just the idea of being gay isn't exactly beloved among the royal community. Not even because most people have an ingrained belief against it. Just because it would be a shitty public image to have. Which is actually kind of worse.

"Yeah, I am."

"Too bad I'm yer husband," Atsumu jumps into bed like he's cannonballing into a pool, and Kiyoomi scrunches his nose up at the invasion of his personal space. Atsumu is warm next to him, a fact he ignores in favor of glaring at the ceiling. 

"I will literally kick you off this bed," Kiyoomi threatens, sleep-drunkenness gone and giving way to frustrating sobriety. He's never getting back to sleep now - if Kiyoomi knows one thing about himself, it's that he's a finicky sleeper. If anything for any reason wakes him up in the middle of the night, he can kiss all hope of a full night's sleep goodbye. 

"Mmm, no ya won't," Atsumu chimes, way too sing-song for the hour. Kiyoomi wants to punch him. "Especially not when I can make a fun little phone call an' getcha remarried in a jiffy." 

"You're not seriously this petty?" Kiyoomi scrunches his eyebrows and casts a glance to Atsumu out of the corner of his eye - hazel eyes are already drooping back into unconsciousness.

"I grew up with a twin brother," Atsumu yawns, rolling on his side to face Kiyoomi. The inky-eyed man makes a disgusted noise from somewhere in the back of his throat that Atsumu takes no notice of, or just conveniently ignores. "I'm the king a' petty. Plus, how're ya gonna fall in love with me if..." the rest of his sentence is unintelligible. Kiyoomi's eye roll is so dragging it probably breaks a record. 

Atsumu falls back into sleep as easily as breathing, a fact that only makes Kiyoomi resent him more, and he wants to scream. 

Two minutes later, while Kiyoomi's busy pondering whether or not it's worth it to move all his stuff to another bedroom at three in the morning, Atsumu replaces the pillow with him. The Miya prince throws a haphazard arm across Kiyoomi's torso, buries his face against Kiyoomi's shoulder. Kiyoomi feels like he's living their first night together all over again- he's trapped in a nightmare. 

After a while he gives up trying - he's tried prying calluses hands off his waist and aggressively shoving Atsumu's face away from his shoulder. He's tried shaking or yelling him awake. Atsumu is as stubborn at night as he is during the day. It's utterly infuriating. 

Kiyoomi succumbs to this new reality, allows himself to go limp as Atsumu hugs him like a lifesize stuffed animal and kicks him occasionally under the sheets. It's not so much that he's getting used to it, just that, but four-thirty, he's lost any will he has to resist. He's not getting any more hours of credible sleep, why even bother trying?

\---

Kiyoomi actually does sleep that night - despite Atusmu's writhing in his sleep and squeezing the life out of Kiyoomi, the Sakusa prince manages to find his old friend amongst the sea of thoughts that clouds his overactive mind. 

He credits the miracle to the exhaustion running races through his body. Tells himself it has nothing to do with Atsumu's presence, that, even if Atsumu being there was a factor, it only served to be an obstacle in the way of Kiyoomi's reunion with restfulness.

And even if maybe, _maybe_ there was the slightest teeny tiniest chance that Atsumu's presence was an aiding factor in Kiyoomi being able to sleep, he knows very well that such a phenomenon is easily explained by silence. 

Touching another person releases dopamine and serotonin which are easily converted into melatonin which helps you sleep and thus, no, there's nothing special about Atsumu other than the fact that he's a person and Kiyoomi's also a person. 

Plus, it doesn't matter anyway because Atsumu Miya is a dick and Kiyoomi would rather be sleeping alone anyway-

Is what he tells himself when Atsumu shoves his face into the crook of Kiyoomi's neck, soft lips grazing his pulse point, and a spike of affection runs down his spine. 

_It's fine, there's a biological explanation for this,_ is pretty much his last thought before he's out like a light.

\---


	6. i learned from my brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wow, you make me so sad."

"What? The fuck?"

Atsumu calls his brother on the fifth day of their "honeymoon" while Kiyoomi's in the shower - the only part of his plan the backfired was the fact that Kiyoomi's ignoring him quite a lot less now (mainly because he's almost always suspicious of the Miya prince. Atsumu's not saying his concern is unwarranted, but that does give him little time for plotting).

"Just _listen_ to me," Atsumu thought of the plan in the middle of the night a couple nights ago when Kiyoomi actually fell asleep next to him (an unprecedented breakthrough by the way). And if he does say so himself, it's a little brilliant. "After I make OmiOmi fall madly in love with me, my favor is gonna be that he's gotta ask me to marry him fer real."

Does he feel a little bad about the idea of using Kiyoomi's emotions for his own personal gain? A little bit. But at the same time, Kiyoomi is still almost always an asshole to him when he's not unconscious so, currently, Atsumu feels like it's somewhat of a fair trade.

"Why?" Osamu sounds skeptical - geez, would it kill him to just trust his brother for once?

"'Cause _then,_ we can bring the countries under joint rule an' I'll be king," that came out far worse than Atsumu had expected. Seriously, his ultimate goal in life had actually been to _not_ be king because there's so much fucking paperwork involved. Not to mention that you have to meet with people you hate and pretend to be diplomatic about it and you can't do anything you want. But the biggest issue Atsumu has with it is that being a king is _boring as fuck._

"Oh, I see. So this is just a massive powerplay then?" Osamu on the other end sounds as critical of his brother's ideas as always. Atsumu rolls his eyes, an action he can only hope is audible through the phone.

"Ugh, _no,_ so much fuckin' paperwork when yer king," it's true. All-day signing damn letters, talking to foreign diplomats. Atsumu couldn't imagine a more horrible way to go through life. People think being royalty is all glamour. In reality, it's all hand cramps and stuffy suits. "I'm doin' this so _you_ don't gotta be king _andja_ can go be a chef'r whatever and doodle around with Sunarin-"

"Don't say doodle, sounds like a sex thing," Atsumu will admit that's true, but he tends to be first place when making unintentional sexual innuendos - it shouldn't be pride-inducing, but Atsumu finds that the most interesting things stroke his ego.

"Y'guys don't do sex stuff?" If Osamu could see the smirk on his face right now, he'd probably slap Atsumu into next Tuesday.

"What- Jesus fuck obviously we do but I ain't talkin' about it with _you_ _._ "

Atsumu barely hides the snicker that bubbles up in his throat, pressing on his tongue.

"Okay _fine,_ Mr. Snippy. Go fuck around with Sunarin-"

"That's surprisingly better," Atsumu would never deign to admit that he likes talking to his brother, but he does. However, Atsumu has a short fuse when it comes to being interrupted, and Osamu likes to do just that as much as humanly possible. 

"Will ya stop bein' a dick an' let me finish my scheme?" Atsumu feels powerful at the connotation behind 'scheme', the idea that an idea so covert may effect such change. Atsumu's never been the one to make change in the family - he's the loser brother - and, for the most part, he's always been fine with that. But if he can do this for Osamu, maybe he's not so worthless after all. 

"Okay, so basically, y'an' Sunarin go live in yer log cabin'r whatever andja open up that chain a' restaurants ya've always dreamed of fer which ya _definitely_ didn't bribe investors with yer name an' notoriety, an' everyone lives happily ever after."

Atsumu's very satisfied with how his plan has formed, rounded and filled out. There are very few holes in its structure, the only one being the possibility that Kiyoomi might not fall in love with him head-first, but that's a non-issue because Atsumu still has a little over three weeks left. He's done more with less. 

Insecurity blooms from the cracks that silence leaves, Atsumu doesn't know what part of his monologue set Osamu off. His brother's never been a terribly temperamental person, the kind of brother you can say almost anything to and can still expect to be forgiven within a matter of days. Even so, it's terrifying when Atsumu can't read every small emotion on his face. 

"Oh..." is all he says. 

Atsumu goes for the safest response. He seems like an open guy, but Atsumu fears digging into what he doesn't understand. And he certainly doesn't understand why Osamu wouldn't be wholeheartedly on board with this plan. 

"Oh come _on,_ yer not seriously tellin' me all yer dreams changed in the one fuckin' week I've been gone." 

"No, _no,_ just-..." the want in his voice is evident - want for a normal life, want for _Suna._ Atsumu understands full well. 

From the moment they both realized there was something beyond gilded palace walls and indoor tennis courts, Osamu's wanted to be a chef and Atsumu's wanted to be a volleyball player. Atsumu's only dream got flushed down the toilet, he's not going to let the same thing happen to Osamu

"Atsumu," his tone is serious, the same one he wears when Atsumu's fucked up big. 

"Fuck waddid I do?"

"Y'can't do this," Atsumu could've foreseen this coming. The foreshadowing was in the shallowness of his brother's tone, the sense of foreboding that shivers through him at the intermittent silences that fragment their normally free-flowing conversation. 

"Uh, why the fuck not?"

"I'm not lettin' ya throw away yer dreams fer mine," Atsumu's dreams died a long time ago. Now he does whatever the fuck he wants - there's something liberating about not being tethered to the false promise of something _better_ than you have. 

Atsumu's okay with the way things are. He's okay with not having a dream, with having a short-term goal that leads to another one of its kind. Okay with playing his life step by step for the time being. Osamu's never been that person, never been the kind of person to wing it. 

Osamu doesn't get not having dreams. His dreams are part of him. Atsumu's are not. There are many pivotal differences between them, this might be the biggest.

"'Samu, ya don't get it," Atsumu's whining has never quite worked on his brother, but when at first you don't succeed, annoy someone until they give you what you want. "I don't _have_ dreams! That's always been yer job. I got half-baked plans and ideas a' what I maybe might wanna do in the future. I'm the loser brother, remember?"

Another staggered pause, an audible breath on the other end of the phone, and then,

"God, whydja haveta start bein' all selfless an' good an' shit?" 

Atsumu takes this as a good sign. 

"Hey! I'm not that selfless, I'm still marriyn' a super hot guy an' bein' king," maybe he should be content to just take the compliment considering such occurrences are few and far between with the Miya twins, but Atsumu's never been that person. He's a contrary being, always arguing even when it makes no sense. 

"I was tryina complimentcha jesus," the words align with normalcy, but there's something breathy in Osamu's tone that makes Atsumu's stomach do flip flops, an insecurity that isn't standard for either Miya brother. Even Osamu whose ego is barely a fraction of his twin's has only felt truly unsure a few times in his life. 

"Ya know I'm not gonna agree ta this, right?" Osamu says after a beat, silent resolve hidden in the creases of each syllable. 

Atsumu knows, he hadn't expected Osamu to agree with him. Like talking to someone about your problems and not expecting them to have the answers, Atsumu is under no illusion that Osamu is on board with his plan - he seldom is. 

"Yeah, I pretty much expected that."

"An' yer still gonna do it anyway, aren'tcha?"

"Obviously," when has anyone ever known Atsumu to quit because of a little thing like risk-factor? 

He leans against the railing of the third-story terrace - Atsumu's no romantic, but he could be charmed by the moonlight on the peaks of very ocean wave or the warm breeze that plays with his hair and tickles against his skin. Plus, the view isn't half-bad either.

"Yer a stubborn bastard." 

Osamu's voice directly contrasts with the peacefulness of the scene sprawled out before him, but Atsumu doesn't mind. Among all the beauty of this new life, Osamu's rough voice is a reminder of home. 

"I learned from my brother," a cocksure grin spreads across his lips. If only Osamu were around to see it and leer. 

"'Samu, I love ya," he says after a moment of them saying nothing. His excuse is the milky pallor of the moon, he wonders what Osamu is using to preoccupy his thoughts. They don't quite get such picturesque scenes from their windows back home. 

"I know."

"Y'gotta say it back." 

There's a pause, but Atsumu can tell it's because Osamu's shaking his head at his brother's stupidity - Atsumu's always been the more affectionate of the two, demanding hugs and 'I love you's at a never present rate. Osamu doesn't require half the amount of attention that his brother does. 

That's why they work. Atsumu takes, Osamu gives, and when it's time for the roles to reverse, it happens all but seamlessly. 

"I love ya too 'Tsumu."

\---

"Y'know, I'm happy fer ya." 

Atsumu bites his lip in focus as he deals Uno cards between the two of them. Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at his sloppy dealing, likely perturbed by the disorganization of each haphazard pile, but Atsumu ignores him, content for now just to tease.

"I know I'm going to regret this, but why?" 

"Ya finally got that stick outta yer ass," insult humor is Atsumu's bread and butter. The people around him have learned to live with it and the people who haven't are gone or cursing his name. Atsumu pisses off a lot of people, if you haven't noticed by now. 

"Yup, regretting it," Kiyoomi pulls his cards into his hands, and Atsumu watches lanky fingers shuffle them with practiced skill. Long digits move nimbly, Atsumu would guess from years of being forced to practice an instrument. 

All royal children tend to get similar treatment at a young age. In the name of future success, they are signed up for lessons in multiple classical instruments, at least two different sports, and a whole plethora of classes with the best tutors the country has to offer. From there, it's basically a waiting game to see what sticks. 

Atsumu had failed miserably at both piano and flute, both boring him to frustrated tears until patience was a small, feeble thing within him. Golf and tennis each made him think that getting his eyes gouged out would be preferable - at the very least, more interesting. He actually liked soccer until he split his entire shin during a game and was made to quit by his parents. 

The only thing that ever stayed with him was volleyball. Most days he chooses not to think about how he lost it. 

"Relax I'm jokin' with ya," Atsumu rolls his eyes. 

"You're always joking. You shouldn't. People won't take you seriously," Kiyoomi stares him down with sparkly eyes. It's like he always has a Snapchat filter on. How is that possible?

"An' y'never joke. Ya should. People won't like ya," Atsumu bites back with a sneer. Kiyoomi barely reacts, limiting his response to a dragging eye roll. "Plus, jokes on you. No one's ever taken me seriously anyway. Y'know what it's like havin' a perfect brother? People don't give a damn aboutcha."

That sounds sad, but in reality, it's a fact that's almost always played to Atsumu's advantage. When people expect nothing of you, life is easy. Not to mention, when you manage to accomplish something amazing, they're beyond awed that you even had it in you. 

"Wow, you make me so sad," Atsumu pouts at that - he's been told he makes people angry, annoyed, sometimes furious. He actually finds amusement in such things. He's not been told before that he makes people _sad._ Sadness is a gross, depressing emotion that Atsumu wants to have no association with. 

"Well, the feeling's mutual. Y'know how to play?" Atsumu moves on quickly, gesturing to the ( _finally_ ) set up Uno game between them. Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow that questions, _really?_ without words. "Don't look at me like that. Ya know I gotta ask."

Atsumu flips the first card over - blue two. _Alright, I know what to do._

He grins all smug and cocksure as he places down the draw four he managed to pick up through sheer luck. Maybe he should've saved it, but you see, Atsumu doesn't _do_ strategy. He does whatever the fuck seems most entertaining at the time and (most likely) loses. 

"What the fuck?" Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow as if Atsumu's horrible thought process has somehow offended his far advanced mind. Atsumu wears his trademark Cheshire grin. 

As competitive as he is, he prizes interest more than he does winning (it's a close slide seeing as Atsumu hates losing almost as much as he hates being bored, but if there's one thing Atsumu can't stand, it's the dull and mundane). 

"What, ya mad?" 

"Appalled at your strategy. Or rather lack thereof. What even is your plan?"

Atsumu shrugs, "No plan in particular. Just doin' whatever seems most fun." Kiyoomi looks beyond horrified, even more than he normally is around the Miya prince. 

"That's a horrible way to go through life," for someone who hates and/or has no interest in Atsumu, Kiyoomi sure does have a lot of opinions about his life. 

Atsumu scrunches up his nose at the criticism. 

"Yeah, well, y'know what else is no way to go through life? With no sense a' humor. I toldja ta go buy one butcha didn't listen to me," Atsumu watches with satisfaction as Kiyoomi grudgingly draws four cards. 

"Maybe I will get one. But if it's anything like yours it had better be heavily discounted," Atsumu gapes but only because that was actually a good dig - unexpected and certainly heavy-hitting (Atsumu's personality is at least fifty percent built on what he considers to be a stunning sense of humor).

"I dunno whether to be impressed or offended."

"Both," Kiyoomi decides for him. Atsumu surveys his largely red hand. 

"Red."

"What?" 

"The color Omi," Atsumu emphasizes, flipping a red two atop his draw four cards. Kiyoomi grimaces - whether it's due to Atsumu's tone or the fact that he's currently losing quite badly, Atsumu has no idea. "I'm startin' ta think ya've never played Uno. What happened during yer childhood? Why're ya such a tight-ass?" 

Atsumu means it as a joke, but Kiyoomi's eyebrows wrinkle as if the question presses play on a film of unpleasant memories. Atsumu's not blind to the way his muscles tense and his lips flatten into a tight line - you learn to read annoyance or discomfort when you grow up with a personality like Atsumu's. 

"It tends to be that way when you spend your entire childhood surrounded by rampant homophobia," Kiyoomi's answer is muttered with all the emotion of a rock. Atsumu used to think it was because he didn't care - maybe he still thinks that a little bit - but now he wonders if it's just Kiyoomi's way of dealing with it. 

Atsumu doesn't ask - how would he even go about asking that - doesn't quite know what to say either. Atsumu's never had that, never had the fear of shame (for who he is, for how he feels, for who he loves). And even if the ground felt unstable when he was confessing to his parents or during the press conference that felt like the beginning of the end, Osamu was right there next to him to even it back out. 

It runs across his mind with heavy footsteps, the notion of Kiyoomi, not as a stone-cold robot, but a kid who's scared to be himself, surrounded by adults who don't have it in them to care. The man across from him feels small, like he's looking at a child - pity is a guttural emotion that Atsumu would erase from existence if he could, and it settles itself in the pit of his stomach.

Atsumu wants to reach across the table, hold his hand, smooth a hand through his hair - _if we knew each other back then I woulda been there fer ya._ He doesn't do either of those things. 

"Omi..."

Kiyoomi takes care of his uneasiness for him, brushes it away with a broom and dustpan.

"Don't call me Omi, stop feeling bad for me and draw."

The drop back into their usual dynamic feels like a punch to the stomach, but the pain is warmly welcomed by Atsumu as an old friend. It's only then that he realizes Kiyoomi's placed down a draw four - what are the odds? 

Atsumu breaks back into a grin, cheerily plucking four cards from the deck and sliding them into his hand. 

"Now what kinda strategy is that, _Omi?_ " 

\---


	7. do you want me to cry? - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay, so real talk here, Kiyoomi how are you dealing with your father's cancer?"

Atsumu falls asleep on him during the flight home. Kiyoomi should've expected as much. But like an idiot, he let a cranky Atsumu Miya whining about sleep sit next to him, and now the man is splayed across his lap, curled up like a baby and Kiyoomi can do nothing but suffer because waking him and calling him a dumbass wouldn't be very _husbandly._

Kiyoomi has no problems with flying commercial, apparently, his parents do.

Apparently, their son is too good for dumb civilian flights, he deserves to be waited on hand and foot. Kiyoomi will admit he enjoys luxury (doesn't everyone?) and he'll admit that the couch on the plane is nice, but Kiyoomi will admit to a lot of things.

The problem arises when _pretending_ to be a couple becomes _being_ a couple, even if it's only for a few (ten) hours. Kiyoomi had not expected it to be so hard. He wonders if this is how it's going to be all the time when they land. If it is - holding and caressing and caring about Atsumu - he might die.

He glares down at the man who's betrayed him, muttering silent curses behind closed lips- That is, until the flight attendant Bethany walks by. Then he cards fingers through Atsumu's hair and fixes his lips to a strained smile as best he can manage. (Atsumu's hair is so soft it's almost surreal, Kiyoomi will admit to no one.)

Kiyoomi goes back to mindlessly tapping at his phone. While Bethany clears away an empty glass of water that had been sitting on one of the side tables, he lets the article he had been reading about the power transition in America re-saturate his brain - if he were awake, Atsumu would gripe about how _boring_ it is.

One would almost think the United States has lost its mind - there are few countries more... _bold_. Kiyoomi shakes his head, clicking his tongue at the back of his throat in disapproval. He knows he's judgemental. He was raised to be judgemental. But then again, he was raised to be Christian and straight, so he supposes there's always time for change.

It's only when the clinking of crystal glass against a metal tray subsides and he's once again bathed in silence that he realizes his hand is long overdue for a change in location. But Atsumu's hair is _so_ soft and it's not like it's a crime anyway, and Kiyoomi's still interested in the article...

Dark eyes flick down to his traitorous hand. He's a slave to the sensation of touch as he smooths his fingers through feather-soft hair, thumb inadvertently brushing the high of Atsumu's cheekbone. His brain tells him to pull away, but the tender hue of the moment seeps honey-thick through his veins, and he's tempted to push the limits just a little further.

Slowly, _slowly,_ with all the gentleness of a man touching porcelain doll, Kiyoomi lets his fingers trail feather-light touches over tanned skin, the sharp edge of Atsumu's jawline, the dewy skin of his cheek. He tests his willpower just a bit more by allowing his thumb to glide over the swell of Atsumu's bottom lip, soft and pillowy, he imagines pressing those lips to his own as they did back at the altar, imagines gliding his tongue-

Kiyoomi jerks his hand away with no prompting in particular, drawing it close to his chest as if Atsumu's burned him - maybe he has, the inverse effect of holy water on a demon. Non-applicable in this sense, though, considering Atsumu's the demon here.

In its panicked state, his mind falls over itself to reattach itself to any small strand of sanity, eyes locking back onto the words of the article he'd been reading. He's ashamed to admit that it suddenly feels, as Atsumu would so eloquently describe it, _boring as all hell._

How else is he supposed to feel? Atsumu is laying in his lap so beautifully, a museum for the senses, Kiyoomi's new favorite plaything. The prince takes abject interest in the specimen beneath him. If there's one thing Kiyoomi will admit about Atsumu Miya, it's that he's far more interesting a person than has ever been part of his life beforehand.

So he touches again.

(Biological explanations don't mean shit if you can't stop. Sensation is nature's most potent drug, anyone who says they're not hooked is lying.)

This time, he's more restrained, less explorative, limiting himself to Atsumu's almost cloud-like strands - is it possible for hair to be this soft? - and he ignores the gentle clench in his chest when Atsumu huffs out (what could be considered by some lesser beings) a cute sigh in his sleep.

He decides that this doesn't mean anything. That this can be compared to the petting of a stranger's dog: exhilaratingly tender for the moment, but an occurrence you will soon move on from to get back to normal life.

_That's true, Atsumu is kind of like a dog,_ is what his inner-subconscious pulls from that thought.

So he strokes Atsumu's hair the whole plane ride home, and he knows that he can never tell the Miya prince this happened, and just like with a lot of things Kiyoomi does regarding Atsumu Miya, he tells himself that's it's a one-off never to happen again.

And as with most every other time he's told himself that in the past week, he genuinely believes it's true.

\---

Atsumu clings to him in the days that follow their arrival back home.

Still jetlagged and vying for even more attention than usual (if that's possible), Atsumu follows him around like a lost puppy dog. Kiyoomi would say he doesn't mind, but it would just be for show. In truth, Atsumu Miya, as docile and pettable as he is when he's asleep and Kiyoomi's horribly sleep-deprived, is wholly annoying.

Atsumu skips in step with him when they walk literally anywhere, still insists on sleeping in the same bed for the rest of the month until their bet ends, even goes so far as to rest his head on Kiyoomi's shoulder whenever possible - they haven't taken steps like holding hands or kissing, but Kiyoomi supposes that's to be expected when you have a relationship entirely for publicity.

Kiyoomi feels that their entire relationship is a tad too affectionate for his liking. Only because it's hard to hate things that make you feel warm and jittery inside, hard to be so hateful toward Atsumu when the Miya prince leans against him and Kiyoomi can feel his sighs. The sharp-edged feeling of despise dulls into a soft ache, a minor annoyance.

It sucks. Kiyoomi hates being married to Atsumu Miya. Getting rid of him will be a godsend.

But that's two and a half months away. Kiyoomi will just have to suffer for the moment.

A mask is a comfortable adjustment for Kiyoomi considering he's been wearing one in public for as long as he can remember. So when they sit on the couch across from Kiori Nakomi, one of the most revered interviewers in the country, masked and socially distanced, Kiyoomi feels as if he's just re-stepped into his comfort zone.

The fact that this is an interview about his "marriage" takes him right back out.

"So how do you feel being the first openly gay couple in such a high-ranking royal lineage?" Atsumu's clearly not paying attention to the conversation at hand as he's drumming an aimless melody on against the meat of his thigh like he's never been under a spotlight before.

"Gay," despite his seeming distraction with the glittery lights above, Atsumu jumps in to answer so Kiyoomi doesn't have to choke on his words.

Kiori laughs, bright as it is shrill. They're in a mutual dance, Kiyoomi can see. Atsumu's as sociable as ever, pretending he's not in the least bit perturbed by the line of questioning even though it's evidenced in the way his smile is strained. Kiori is pretending she doesn't find them disgusting, laughing to hide her discomfort.

Kiyoomi's not blind. He's seen what he likes to call the _glint_ countless times before _._ The glint in their eye that hints at disgust or contempt or a gross amalgamation of the two. The lilt to their voice that exposes the underlying repulsion.

Kiyoomi's not saying everyone who possesses that unique _glint_ is a raging homophobe who would sooner burn both of them at the stake than so much as touch them. Good people have ingrained biases too. Good people don't have to understand homosexuality. Good people can smile through their preconceived notions in the name of courtesy.

It doesn't hurt any less to know that _good people_ can't see them as good people too.

So Kiyoomi holds his tongue, decides that maybe, no matter how unwise a decision it may be, to let Atsumu do the talking this time.

"But really, I think you guys blew up the internet. People are having a hard time processing that this is real."

Kiyoomi isn't a fan of over exaggerations. Yes, their "marriage" is a big deal and _yes,_ a large portion of the world is watching their every move. But to say that they're so revolutionary people are having a hard time processing would be foolish. He's willing to hazard that the majority of people who know have already processed their "marriage" and, he could even go so far as to say, have formed an opinion on it. That's just how the internet works.

"Do you have anything to say to people who would...disagree with your marriage?" Kiyoomi momentarily forgets that this is a talk show and has nothing to do with world politics beyond how they're affected by his gayness.

"Should we?"

"You make a fair point," Kiyoomi keeps his eyes fixed on where Atsumu's hand taps anxiously. Would a good husband hold his nervous husband's hand?

Yes, Kiyoomi concludes. But they're not husbands, they're "husbands" so Kiyoomi reaches over subtly, locking Atsumu's hand in a vice grip to keep it from distracting him - he deems this close enough to handholding to be considered affectionate.

Atsumu's hazel eyes flick over to Kiyoomi for the briefest of seconds in questioning, but he asks nothing outright. Which is good because Kiyoomi wouldn't have had one anyway.

"So, Osamu, we've been wondering, is it a big change? Being apart from your _twin_ brother for so long?" Kiori's question is innocent, but Atsumu looks as though he's about to choke.

Kiyoomi placed his other hand on Atsumu's forearm just above his pulse - to any onlooker, it's an affectionate, comforting gesture. To them, it's a silent reminder not to give away the only secret that matters.

"It's been a challenge," Kiyoomi answers vaguely like he's always been taught to. "But we're working on it. Together."

The crowd _aw's_ and Kiyoomi has never more wished the ground would swallow him whole. Atsumu's never going to let him live this down. The red/hot embarrassment swirling through him right now is almost enough for him to blow this whole thing out of the water.

He doesn't, but it's a close call. Especially when Atsumu smiles at him in a way that would look, to a normal person, sweet and docile, but is patronizing with context.

"And Kiyoomi, does this marriage feel like a step in the right direction to you? Are you proud of you and your husband?"

Kiyoomi's eye twitches.

"Yes, I'm very proud of the progress being made, especially amongst the international community regarding the acceptance of homosexuality."

"That's lovely to hear."

Kiyoomi knows she didn't really _hear_ anything. She couldn't have because his answer was all but contentless, fluff nothingness to keep the general public satisfied.

He's entered this dance too now. It's three people and it's awkward to manage, but Atsumu, Kiori, and him must make a good team because no one's called them out yet.

Shallow questions that mean nothing follow - Kiyoomi lets Atsumu handle all the questions about the specifics of their relationship. Funny how the internet has no shame in asking who tops in their relationship, but Kiori gets giggly about the question of handholding in public.

In reality, their relationship is nothing like the cute dynamic people seem to have formulated in their heads. In fact, it is much more like Godzilla vs. MUTO. Their entire relationship can be rationalized through a series of arguments with conjoining moments of banter. The tender moments are few and far between (and will never be spoken about by either party before or after they happen). 

Kiyoomi is fine with this, with inane chatter to appease a wider audience of viewers entertained by such things - the false inner-workings of their relationship seem to be quite the spectacle. 

So he sits, and he fiddles with Atsumu's fingers like it's his favorite pastime, allows people to think it's a loving gesture, when really it's just an ever-present reminder to stay on script, to keep to things _Osamu_ would say, not to let his true colors - obnoxiously shiny gold - show through too much. 

If there's one thing Kiyoomi can respect about Atsumu, it's how hard he's trying to keep his actual personality under control.

What he isn't fine with, though, is when they venture beyond the surface-level and delve deeper into things Kiyoomi only explores in his worst nightmares. Issues, questions he doesn't even deign to ask himself on nights when he has all the time in the world. Questions like,

"Okay, so real talk here, Kiyoomi how are you dealing with your father's cancer?" 

This is not real talk. This is cut open your soul with a perring knife talk, dig into the deepest darkest crevices of your damaged psyche talk, carefully disect your heart under the spotlight talk. 

Kiyoomi purses lips that feel chapped. Kiyoomi keeps his eyes focused at nothing in particular. Kiyoomi doesn't let go of Atsumu's hand. 

"How am I supposed to deal with it?"

There are some things people aren't supposed to know, some things that are meant to belong to someone until they decide to share it. This is one of those things, one of those few secrets that the world has no right to. 

The wife of a cheating husband has the right to know the person she married is being unfaithful. The child of a couple splitting up has a right to know what's going to change and what will stay the same. The world does not have the right to know about Akihito Sakusa's third-stage lung cancer. 

"Well- I-"

"Do you want me to cry?" Kiyoomi gets angry, in fact, it's not hard for people to make Kiyoomi Sakusa angry. But it takes a special kind of disrespect to get him mad enough to show it. "How do you even know about that?" 

In the moment, he goes against everything he's been taught regarding how to talk to the press. He gives into the instinctive urge to bite back, to say what he wants when he wants, to put someone in their place when they've crossed a line that's not so thin that they can't see it. 

They see the red tape. They break it with reckless abandon. They smash the tolerances Kiyoomi's built up with years of hardwork and they do so with a smile, under the guise of free speech. And they react as if everything that ensues is through no fault of their own, as if every glare or harsh word they pull from Kiyoomi is nothing more than a side effect of _his_ own condition. 

"I-...I have my sources-"

"Next time tell your sources to dig into the life of someone who's into that." 

Kiyoomi stands and drags Atsumu with him. Sometimes even things you hate, that you'd never want to carry with you, can serve as the only source of comfort when the walls are closing in. 

Kiyoomi is convinced that his lungs are shrinking - or maybe the air is merely getting less breathable as the seconds pass. Either way, it matters little. Walking out on a talk show, espcially one as infamous as Kiori's, is social suicide. If Kiyoomi weren't a prince, he'd be cancelled before he even got off stage. 

He knows gets one free pass because he's attractive, famous, and gay (all factors that affect him positivly with the progressively more liberal younger generations). But it's hard to care about the future when the present moment feels like someone's giving you accupuncture with steak knives.

Exiting the glare of spotlights, Kiyoomi is bathed in what feels like dark nothingness as the backstage consumes him. It's comforting until he realizes that he chaos of backstage is all centered around him, that hands are quick to grab at him, voices to hurl attempts at convincing him to stay. 

Kiyoomi's shoulders touch at every brush of a backstage assistant, he bristles at _"Prince Sakusa, please wait a minute!"_

Kiyoomi never thought his saving grace would come in the form of Atsumu Miya, a sarcastic, childish, immature man with the spirit of a child. The Miya prince loops an arm around his shoulders, acts as a sheild between Kiyoomi and the rest of the world. His smile deflects questions, the promise of a future statement, a public apology that Kiyoomi will likely refuse to give, seems to appease lackies with brutal efficiancy. 

Kiyoomi can see now that Atsumu is a prince. Kiyoomi isn't. 

When they reach nighttime air, the humidity is clensing. In the light of a back door street light, Atsumu has never looked more beautiful. The Miya prince nods into midnight, sorts out his thoughts with a silent grace that looks as amazing on him as the golden glow does. Maybe they're one and the same. 

Maybe Kiyoomi will allow himself this silent moment. Allow himself, for a moment, to not hate Atsumu Miya. He can allow himself not to hate this covertly gentle man even if it means acknowledging the loud and obnoxious as part of that _gentle._

Kiyoomi flicks dark eyes up to the moon, allows it to reflect the contradiction of hues and glows - one dark, one almost ethereal. And he promises himself that _one day_ he will find the words to thank Atsumu Miya for this simple act. Even if it is just that. An act. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god! i was trying to get this in yesterday but i'm thirty seven minutes over the wire. also i didn't have time to proof read this! i'm so sorry!!


	8. do you want me to cry? - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Y'can cry if ya want to. I'll pretend I don't notice."

"Kiyoomi, at best, you acted unprofessionally." 

"Fucking sue me," one could venture to say that Kiyoomi has a love-hate relationship with his father, but really love and hate are just two faces of the same coin. 

The only difference between Kiyoomi's relationship with his father and the rest of the world is that Kiyoomi and Akihito Sakusa utilize both sides of that coin.

"Watch your language, young man," the tone, the inflection, the warning held in a gravelly voice due to years of smoking when it was still considered cool. It all used to scare the living daylights out of a younger Kiyoomi Sakusa. Now, it's a challenge. 

Most kids gain more respect for their elders as they grow, realize their insolence of childhood. Kiyoomi seems to have taken the opposite approach. 

"I'm a _fucking_ adult, dad! I'm not some kid that might accidentally trip over their shoelaces-"

"You need to check your attitude and _calm down,_ " Kiyoomi wonders in the moment if the phrase 'you need to calm down' has ever worked to calm anyone down ever. Isn't that basically like telling someone who's dog just got hit by a car to 'stop being sad'?

"Oh is that an order?" He mocks because he's long past the point of self-control now. Kiyoomi's never been one to lose control easily, he likes to think he holds his emotions in a vice grip. But things tend to get out of hand when you have a problem with authority bigger than the Grand Canyon. For all his control, Kiyoomi hates being bossed around. "Why _shouldn't_ I be mad?! Why should I just roll the fuck over and let some nosy _fucking_ reporter tell me how I'm supposed to-"

"Kiyoomi, _I_ was the one who leaked the information," Kiyoomi's mouth stops moving, stunned into silence by the impossible - no. His father was adamant about not letting anyone know, about keeping his sickness a behind-closed-doors secret. He was the one whose pride wouldn't let him even admit he had to give up the throne for so _fucking_ long- 

"Why the fuck would you do that?!" 

If he manages to convince himself he's not screaming it's only because every part of him is so numb that his voice is muted to his own ears. 

"The country needs to know that I'm not stepping down because I'm incompetent. They need to have total faith in you, need to know that I'm not leaving the throne to my _twenty-two-year-old son_ just for kicks." 

And _oh,_ Kiyoomi can't fucking believe this. 

It had taken him a while as a kid to realize that everything his family did was for the public, whether it be actual policymaking or just going about their daily lives. He didn't really grasp onto the concept that their every move was being watched until he pushed a kid who tried to touch him with disgusting snotty fingers at the age of eight. 

Kiyoomi had a thing with germs when he was younger. The press was, as it is with the most mundane of things, scandalized. A formal apology to the child and his family was issued not hours later.

To this day, Kiyoomi considers that the inciting incident when the question of his (almost) perfect track record with the press is called into question. After receiving a verbal beat down from his father about it, Kiyoomi squished himself into the mold of a perfect little prince. 

He wore the suits, he let people touch him - while not ideal, at least it helped him get over his mild germaphobia ( _"It's not good publicity,"_ he'd heard his mother saying to his psychiatrist at the time. _"Can we change it?"_ ). He even memorized the stuffy press statements he'd been ignoring his entire life.

And for what? For this? An entire childhood of rebelling wasted, pushed aside in favor of formulated perfection just to flushed down the metaphorical drain at the age of twenty-two. 

"So...you did it to save face?" 

His father's face is much like his own - the resemblance doesn't hide, it bares itself plainly to the world. Kiyoomi never thought that was a bad thing. By all accounts, his father is a classically handsome man who's aged quite well. But there are times, like now, when he can see the coldness, the chill, the utter unemotionality, the _nothing._

And he wonders if he's become so diluted so as not to see it in himself. If, by stepping off the beaten path, the obvious choice, he's followed the same obscure his trail his father had sought to use. 

"Kiyoomi, you're not old enough to understand," _bullshit,_ Kiyoomi's been "not old enough to understand" for his entire life. In fact, he doubts that he'll ever be "old enough to understand" because Akihito Sakusa defies understanding. One moment he's guarded by walls upon walls of elegant facades, the next he's throwing his son under the bus in the name of honesty. 

"That's bullshit! I'm old enough to run a country but I'm not old enough to be privy to why my _own father_ can't give me some fucking advanced warning?!" 

"Kiyoomi-"

"I get that this is hard on you, but it's hard on me too! And you're dragging me with you like I'm inside your fucking head and can predict what you want from me! That was _fucking bullshit!_ What did you want me to do?!"

"I wanted you to act like a goddamn adult is what I wanted you to do-"

"This _is_ me acting like an adult! This is me acting like a human being! You wanted me to be your perfect little robot prince and smile for the fucking cameras and-" 

"Kiyoomi, that's enough," his father's hand comes down on his mahogany desk. The gold of his wedding ring adds an ominous clack in time with the crackling of a summer thunderstorm that rages just beyond arching study windows. 

His mother looks gaunt and ghostly in the pale light, her nearly translucent pallor not holding up to the harsh lightning strikes. She's always been the gentle one between the three of them, but _gentle_ doesn't get you much without words. She affects quiet change, does so without lifting a finger or even opening her lips. 

Now, she stands a statue, a decorative presence in the corner - she's been completely disengaged with the press since getting news of his father's cancer. Kiyoomi can respect her "couldn't care less attitude." Instead, she spends all day every day taking care of every menial behind the scenes job that his father is too self-important to take on. 

Kiyoomi loves his mother. But sometimes, just sometimes maybe, he wishes she'd be more stubborn, less kind, would call out his father's bullshit because, out of the entire palace staff, the entire fucking world, Kiyoomi seems to bear all the responsibility for that.

"I am your father-" 

"Really? Because you're acting like a drama-horny teenager," his mother's face out of the corner of his eye reads _"You've gone too far"_ but Kiyoomi's pretty sure he went "too far" the first time he talked off-script. Kiyoomi's been over the line for quite some time now.

"You've gone too far, Kiyoomi. I am your king," maybe that's what's wrong with them. 

"Uh-huh. Call me back when you start acting like it." 

Kiyoomi likes storming out, it makes him feel powerful. He holds the cards, the other party can do with his absence what they will. Ultimately, he'll reap the benefits. 

But this isn't a storm out. This is a kid singing "la la la" with their hands over their ears while their world burns around him. They've never had a _good_ relationship, but Kiyoomi thinks this is likely to be the final nail in the coffin, the slam of thick oak doors equalling the crack of a hammer against wood. 

\---

Being naked is how humans are supposed to be, actually. So really, Atsumu wrapping a towel around his waist is him doing his "husband" a courtesy. 

He thinks he should be allowed to enjoy the afterglow of a long shower in peace - he knows Kiyoomi will berate him for it regardless, but currently, the inky-eyed prince is busy getting chewed out by his dad for freaking out on national television. 

Atsumu would text Osamu, but his brother had told him explicitly _not_ to bother him because he and Suna were "doodling". There had never been a moment in his life where Atsumu had wished more that he could punch his brother in the face.

He doesn't mind, he guesses, content to play mindless games on his phone when he should probably be doing the responsible thing and researching world events. But honestly, hearing about American politics is far less interesting than zoning out while playing Candy Crush. 

The thing about politics is that it's all been said and done before. People will act shocked and surprised, but really it's just to get more likes, more eyes on their posts. Look, all the shit that's going on in the world right now probably happened hundreds of years ago in some form or another. The only difference is that, back then, they didn't have Twitter so people couldn't share their unsolicited opinions on _everything._

Atsumu often wishes he could be born a middle-class citizen in some small town. Then he could play for his high school volleyball team and accept that contract because it would probably be the best offer he'd ever get. And he could marry some guy he really liked and they'd ride off into the sunset and live happily, _normally,_ ever after.

Instead, he's stuck in this twisted web of public relations and fake marriages. 

Money and fame have complexities attached to them, invisible strings that are ingrained into your life whether you like them or not. The facts are that you can't have the best of both worlds no matter how much you want them or how hard you try. People are under some illusion that there's a sweet spot between normalcy and glamor that they can worm their way into. But they can't. It's a futile effort, harmful at best. 

Atsumu's learned it's better just to relent and let the tide take you where it will. The tide seems to think dumping Atsumu directly into Kiyoomi's lap is the funniest joke since "why did the chicken cross the road?" 

Atsumu didn't know King Sakusa had cancer. He probably wouldn't have known if it wasn't leaked. He probably would've lived blissfully ignorant of the fact - he's ashamed to say he didn't even question why Kiyoomi would be coronated so early on in life. 

But what was he supposed to do? Just ask? _"Hey, is yer dad dying? Is that why yer gonna be king? Also hey! While we're at it, why not make us both kings?"_

He feels like a dick, using this to the advantage of him and his brother. But the gears are already turning and the wheels are already in motion, and stopping them out of pity would be useless and futile. Maybe he's a bad person. Maybe he's going to go to hell if his private Christian education is to be believed. Maybe he doesn't mind going to hell for Osamu. And maybe...maybe he'll be there for Kiyoomi.

Only if he needs it, though. 

The door to their room opens with a slam and closes with a sound of a similar effect. Kiyoomi seems to think that Atsumu won't notice how he's so angry he could literally be steaming, or at least seems to think that Atsumu will ignore it - also a wrong assumption, by the way. Atsumu doesn't ignore things unless they're inconvenient, and digging into Kiyoomi's life is hardly an inconvenience. Far more interesting than playing Candy Crush, anyway. 

Atsumu's turned on his side facing the door, but he can feel Kiyoomi slump beside him, the anger previously pent up in his body dissipating, as if it took all his energy just to get into bed.

"Well I see ya made it back in one piece," the response to his half-joke is silence, and he could be persuaded to believe that Kiyoomi had fallen asleep the second his head hit the pillow just based on the softness of his breaths. 

But then there's:

"Yeah." 

And his chest hurts. Because this isn't how it's supposed to be, because something's changed and Atsumu knows exactly what which is worse than not knowing at all. 

The energy is gone, the will to fight back, as if Atsumu's just one more problem he's dealing with and not a challenge to be conquered through witty banter and snappy bordering on mean comebacks, has dissipated. In its place, there's a hole Atsumu didn't know had formed. 

The only person Atsumu had ever allowed himself to rely on was Atsumu. He supposes maybe Kiyoomi fits into that category now too, in a twisted kind of way. He's adjusted to a new reality he didn't even know was coming. Allowed Kiyoomi in when the point was to keep him out.

Beyond that, the nothing he's getting, silent submission, is wrong. Enemies can't be enemies if one side of them doesn't have it in them to fight, which in itself feels like a loss. 

"Y'wanna talk about it?" 

"No." 

"Okay." 

Atsumu flops on his back and stares at the translucent silk of the canopy above. Okay. There's a way to fix this. He just has to figure it out. Fuck, he'll let Kiyoomi punch him in the damn stomach if he can stop being sad and go back to being an asshole. 

The Miya prince breathes out a sigh. He knows that's not how it works. People don't get over stuff, it's not part of human nature. People have to feel until they're done feeling and you have to let them because every person, regardless of who it is, deserves that courtesy, deserves to come undone and be put back together again. 

However, there has to be a way to speed up the process. Kiyoomi's only been Sad Kiyoomi for five minutes and Atsumu feels loneliness as a palpable thing he holds in his hands. He lost Osamu and he got Kiyoomi. Now however fractured their relationship might be, at least it's a constant. 

His self-centered trance is broken when he realizes Kiyoomi isn't breathing. In the moment, he panics - stupidly, he somehow thinks Kiyoomi's died beside him - and places a hesitant hand on the shoulder blade of the back turned to him. 

Atsumu feels stupid when he feels a very _alive_ heart beating steadily beneath the corded muscles of Kiyoomi's back. Feels stupid because he realizes that Kiyoomi's not breathing because he's trying to prevent something, not cause something. Prevent tears, not cause asphyxiation. 

And no, he doesn't know how to respond to that, respond to nothing, but maybe if Kiyoomi cries they'll stop being precarious friends and go back to hardened enemies. So, into the silence that makes his soul feel like it's tipping over the edge of a cliff, he speaks,

"Y'can cry if ya want to. I'll pretend I don't notice." 

There's a pause - Atsumu identifies it as consideration of his offer. 

And then Kiyoomi cries. Atsumu stares at the wall and resists the urge to roll over, soothe gentle circles against his skin with his thumbs, hold him with strong arms. 

If it was something he could control, he'd be chiding himself for the possibility of genuinely caring for Kiyoomi. But since it's not, he decides this will be a one-time exception as he stares at the corner of a vent most cleverly painted the same color as the drywall surrounding it. 

Kiyoomi sounds sad and broken when he cries, like he doesn't quite know how to do it properly because he's never been allowed to before. His technique is all off, doesn't know how to manage breathing and shedding tears simultaneously. His noises are strangled and cut off because he's trying to stop them when every experienced crier knows that, just like with sneezes, you don't stifle them.

Sometime after one in the morning, Kiyoomi falls asleep. Atsumu uses his new-found peace as an excuse to give up on his will power. He untethers it from himself and lets it free-float into the ether as he rolls over and slips an arm around Kiyoomi's waist. 

Atsumu prepares his ulterior motive in his head as a script he'll spend the rest of a sleepless night memorizing - Kiyoomi will ask him, and Atsumu will have a perfectly planned out answer. Or he won't, and they won't talk about how Atsumu feels secure like this, knowing that, at least for the moment, he and sleep are making an effective team in protecting Kiyoomi. 

And he lets himself feel a gentle heartbeat against his chest, breaths that have finally evened out reverberate. This is new. This is nice. Atsumu's no stranger to sleeping in the same bed as someone (Osamu used to get nightmares, _weakling_ ), but he's never held someone like this before. This is intimate and warm. 

Atsumu's never really been one obsessed with finding love, but if this is what people in love do, he supposes there's something to be said for it.

Even so, it's unfamiliar territory. So Atsumu handles this like he handles every other unfamiliar situation. 

He wings it. 

\---


	9. i look like a fucking disney princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My princess OmiOmi. How I love ya baby-"

A week passes, it takes all the man-power of a team of twenty publicists to repair Kiyoomi's damaged online presence - he complains about it the entire time. 

Atsumu can live with it, if he's being completely honest. It gives him a sadistic sense of satisfaction to feel how their roles have reversed - Kiyoomi taking up that of a petulant child - even if the transition is only temporary until he can regain some of his dignity, heal his fractured pride.

Although, they do have him on house arrest until he stops being a ticking time bomb set off by the smallest dissatisfactory interaction and turns back into a normal human being. Wouldn't want to risk him exploding on an innocent bystander who accidentally spills coffee on him. 

Atsumu doesn't mind that either. He has a little less than two weeks to make Kiyoomi fall head over heels for him, so he'll take every moment with the inky-eyed prince he can get. And, before you ask, no, they haven't, and will not ever, talk about Kiyoomi crying and Atsumu holding him. Because Kiyoomi has too much pride to admit it even so much as happened, and Atsumu's certainly not going to mention his moment of abject weakness.

Kiyoomi hadn't even been privy to that last one. Atsumu has made the executive decision that he doesn't need to be. 

"Bein' on house arrest ain't all that bad, Omi," Atsumu reasons with a sulking man, or at least attempts to. Kiyoomi hasn't left bed in _a while,_ quite unlike him considering he routinely goes on a jog at least once a day for fitness. "Y'getta spend all day every day with yers truly." 

Atsumu grins, Kiyoomi seems to sag further into the mattress, if that's even possible. 

"You're horrible," Kiyoomi groans, obviously having given up completely on trying to hide his contempt. Atsumu can sympathize with the sentiment. However, being depressed about tanking his relationship with Kiori Nakomi isn't going to change what he said. In fact, all it's really doing is depressing Atsumu along with him. Like he said before, Sad Kiyoomi is no fun. 

"Okay, yeah, fair point. But I at least gotta be better than sulkin' all afternoon," the response he gets, which Atsumu is sure is probably a jab at him, is garbled and muffled against the plush pillows of their bed. Atsumu whines from somewhere at the back of his throat. "Omi come _on,_ it's a beautiful day outside an' yer so sad it's makin' _me_ sad!" 

Kiyoomi flops his head to the side at what can't possibly be a comfortable angle to send Atsumu a sharp glare - his dedication to communicating his pure unbridled hatred for the Miya prince is admirable, Atsumu thinks. Atsumu has no choice but to relent. If looks could kill, he'd be in a million tiny ribbons right now. But since they can't,

"Look, y'can't change whatcha said or did. Between you an' me, I think she deserved what she got, but the point is that other people don't see it that way. Y'gotta give it time," Atsumu ventures a little bit out of his comfort zone and risks threading gentle fingers through ebony curls. They're surprisingly soft and springy to the touch. Atsumu thinks he could stay like this for hours, just fruitlessly trying to detangle knots formed through years of bedhead. 

He decides that he'll dwell on the fact that Kiyoomi's literally allowing Atsumu to _pet_ him later. Right now he'll just enjoy what he's getting away with. 

"Which is why yer gonna come with me an' we're gonna have fun. If yer stayin' outta the eye a' the general public for at least the next couple weeks, y'oughtta at least do somethin' other than lay here an' wallow," Atsumu pats him on the head, more of a slap than anything else. A kind of _get up ya lazy ass._

"I'll wallow if I fucking want to."

"Mmmm...no ya won't. I've made the executive decision fer both of us," Atsumu decides without giving it a second thought. They've got nine-hundred thousand square feet of rooms made specifically to entertain (also to carry out important business, and sometimes to live off of, but otherwise it's all glamor and luxury). They'd be fools not to use it to their advantage. 

"Ya've basically been excused from havin' ta talk ta people fer like, two weeks. Take advantage of it!" Atsumu prods his muscular shoulder with a pointer finger. Does it again just to feel the give of the muscle beneath his fingertip. 

The sharp glare returns with a vengeance to haunt Atsumu's dreams, but he's not deterred. 

"Y'know, if I gotta drag ya outta here, I'll fuckin' do it. Ya know I will," Atsumu is half-lying. He doesn't know for sure if he could actually carry Kiyoomi considering he's like a hundred and seventy pounds of lean muscle. But he could definitely try, which might at least be worse for Kiyoomi than it is for him. 

Atsumu tugs experimentally on his arm, which seems to be enough for Kiyoomi to give up - apparently, just the prospect of Atsumu having to physically touch him enough to drag him seems to be a sufficiently strong deterrent. 

Kiyoomi practically flops out of bed. Atsumu admires the way strong muscles flex under his thin t-shirt - but Kiyoomi can't ever know that. The inky-eyed man sends him a pointed scowl, but Atsumu counts this as a win regardless considering he's getting exactly what he'd hoped for. 

So he smiles and leads the way with a jubilant skip in his step. 

Kiyoomi might have a stark diversion to anything and everything remotely entertaining, but Atsumu is determined to make him have at least a little bit of fun with this glorified vacation time. 

Plus, the worst that can happen is Kiyoomi murders him while they're off in some obscure corner of the palace and stuffs his body in a storage closet. At least the resulting story from the discovery of his corpse will be baller. 

\---

They go to the flower field that sits just behind the palace because Atsumu thinks it's pretty and hasn't gotten a chance to properly visit it yet - okay, so this is more for his own benefit than Kiyoomi's, but the guy doesn't even want to have fun, so one of them might as well enjoy it.

It's sprawling and empty, nothing but brilliant green and pretty pale colors, lined by gorgeous trees and framed by perfect blue sky. Atsumu doesn't consider himself a romantic, but the field is immaculate, picturesque in a way that makes Atsumu sigh with contentment. Back at home, they didn't have nature quite like this. Artificially glowing cityscapes were about as close they got to beauty on this level. 

Atsumu casts a sidelong glance to his "husband" - Omi looks beautiful in direct sunlight. His complexion is pale and shimmery, his eyes reflect the golden glow like a crystal refracting rainbows, and there's something about the expression on his face, softer than usual, a gentle appreciation resting on the slight curve of his lips. 

If they were real, Atsumu might kiss him right now, tell him how pretty he looks, and then demand to be hugged because there is no better place to be hugged than in the middle of a flower field under warm sunshine. Technically, any place is a good place to be hugged, but this feels like it would be particularly nice. 

The operative word in that sentence being "would". But since Atsumu has dignity, pride, and _definitely_ no feelings for Kiyoomi Sakusa, he's opted to keep his hands to himself for the time being. 

"Why are we here?" Kiyoomi sounds as grouchy as always. 

"Because we're gonna relax. An' the best way ta relax is ta put yerself in relaxing situations. Like this one," Atsumu gestures broadly to the field, smiling with pride - this was a very good plan, if he does say so himself. There can't possibly a person alive on the planet who doesn't at least appreciate flowers in some context. "Don'tcha like it?"

"What are we doing here?" Kiyoomi rephrases his original question, and Atsumu heaves a dramatic sigh. It's hard, getting nowhere with someone despite your best efforts. Which is really what their entire relationship is made up of - Atsumu stupidly trying and managing to fall flat on his face, and Kiyoomi taking no interest in him despite said trying-and-failing. 

"Just sit down like normal people do in flower fields ya fuckin' doof," with a firm hand planted on Kiyoomi's shoulder, Atsumu pushes him down. Kiyoomi goes willingly, a grumble about how stupid Atsumu is on his lips despite the fact that he's letting himself be guided by the Miya prince. "See, doesn't that feel nice?"

"I'm sitting on the ground. Lovely."

"Hahaha, yer sarcasm is much appreciated."

" _My_ sarcasm? Yours is _award-worthy._ " 

They're stuck in a loop - not an uncommon occurrence - Atsumu sees it. He'd better end it before things get out of hand. 

"Okay, okay, Omi, I get thatcher more of a dick than usual 'cause a' the whole fightin' with yer dad thing an' gettin' harassed by the press an' all. But I'm seriously tryina help here, an' yer not makin' it easy."

There's strung silence for a moment, taught like the strings of a cello, and then Kiyoomi sighs, letting the tension flow out of his muscles - Atsumu can see it in the way his shoulders slump. And Atsumu smiles, because he knows that's about as much of an apology as he's going to get from Kiyoomi.

"Good, see? Isn't this way better than bein' Oscar the fuckin' grouch? Isn't it way easier to relax than yer tight-ass made it seem?"

"I'm doing what you asked so can you do me a solid and shut up?"

"Roger that, Omi." 

"Don't call me Omi, stop talking." 

Atsumu shuts his mouth, determined not to ruin the moment he so perfectly crafted - Kiyoomi Sakusa being agreeable? Who would've thought he had it in him? He lets his mind wander, Kiyoomi closes those pretty eyes, seemingly far more content with letting himself relax than he might have wanted to admit. 

There's something calming about the soft summer breeze and the distant sound of leaves ruffling, something almost mesmerizing about watching colorful wildflowers sway slightly. Kiyoomi is mesmerizing too, when Atsumu allows himself to look at him. Curls bounce gently, face genuinely placid, unbothered by the normality of small annoyances. 

Atsumu almost wants to touch him, much in the same way a sticky-fingered child would wish to touch the Mona Lisa where it hangs in the Lourve.

However, despite the peace and quiet, Atsumu soon finds himself growing bored - not a surprise considering he's about as restless as soul as they come. So he resorts to entertaining an idea that had entered his head the moment they stepped foot in the flower field. Kiyoomi is about to hate him so much, but this opportunity is golden, one he might never get again. 

Atsumu pulls his phone from his pocket and Googles a quick image tutorial on how to braid hair, then proceeds to pick the prettiest flowers from around them - the colors will contrast nicely against the midnight hue of OmiOmi's hair. He whispers small apologies to the delicate things, promising he won't kill any more of them than is absolutely necessary to make Kiyoomi pretty. 

With as gentle a touch as he can muster, he slides around behind his "husband" and begins the arduous but well-worth-it task of braiding the small flowers into Kiyoomi's hair, all the while keeping an eye on him to prevent himself from getting spontaneously murdered. 

The angle at which his neck is craned to stare at the guide on his phone is awkward at best, which is why it's a godsend that Kiyoomi's curls are thick enough to hold some of the flowers without needing to lock them in through braiding. 

He acutally gets almost all the way around his head before Kiyoomi's cracking an eye open with skepticism and eyeing Atsumu like he's just kicked his dog. He curses himself for attempting to tuck a frilly, pretty pink flower behind his ear thinking that there might be a chance he wouldn't notice. 

"What are you doing to me?" Kiyoomi asks like Atsumu's injected him with a fatal toxin.

"I'm makin' ya pretty," Atsumu announces, voice bright and peppy as always. He makes sure to smile where he sits next to his "husband", grinning as sappy sweet as he possibly can. Inwardly, he scoffs at himself for thinking 'sweet' would ever work on Kiyoomi. "Just take a look fer yerself!" 

Atsumu pulls his phone out and swipes left, reflecting their faces - one smiling, one slowly processing the horror playing out before it - in the selfie camera.

Kiyoomi looks between camera Atsumu and real Atsumu as if he half expects this to be some sick joke, and Atsumu has to bite his tongue to keep a bubbly laugh at bay - it would only serve to exacerbate the situation, and by exacerbate, I mean get him punched in the face. 

There's a strained silence. Atsumu's waiting for yelling or violence, likely some combination of the two. Waiting for the ticking time bomb to explode, eviscerating him instantly. In the moment before his death, Atusmu decides that, if this is where he spends his final moments, it was well worth it. 

I mean, how could it _not_ be worth it? Kiyoomi looks so cute bordering on _too_ cute. The flowers, as predicted, stand out perfectly against ebony curls (Atsumu has an eye for design. He pats himself on the back for it), their petals give him an innocence Atsumu hadn't known he was capable of possessing. If Atsumu were a sentimental man, he would have this image hung and framed. A remembrance of the greatest stunt he'd managed to pull off thus far- Assuming he manages to escape with his life still intact.

Atsumu snaps a few pictures, even daring to utter, _"smile"_ \- what can he say? He likes to live life on the edge. 

"What the fuck?! I look like a fucking Disney princess!" Kiyoomi looks so far beyond horrified it could almost be comical if Atsumu wasn't currently in fear for his life. 

"Awww, absolutely, Darlin'," Atusmu coos, sappy and saccharine and absolutely cloying bordering on patronizing. He drops his head to Kiyoomi's shoulder, maybe concedes a little that he enjoys the feeling of his head nestled in the crook of Kiyoomi's neck or the way he smells like vanilla and mint. "My princess OmiOmi. How I love ya baby-" 

"Ugh I _hate_ you!" Kiyoomi stands abruptly, knocking Atsumu's head from the notch where it had sat with a jolt. He winces at the pain, but follows Kiyoomi with amused hazel eyes nonetheless. "Why are you the worst?!" 

"Why're _you_ incapable a' havin' fun?"

"I'm incapable of being horrible," Kiyoomi sneers at Atsumu from where he stands, but whatever effect it was supposed to have is greatly diminished by the fact that his head is still surrounded by a halo of flowers, making him look like something akin to an angel. He really is pretty, whatever one can say about his personality. 

"Well that just hurts, Omi," Atsumu mocks hurt, holding a hand over his heart. "Y'could've at least tried fer a more unique adjective." 

\---

Atsumu lays in bed that night texting Osamu as he does on most of nights sleep seems incapable of indulging him - sometimes Candy Crush or Instagram is more entertaining, but Osamu's almost always up, so it's hardly difficult to reach him. 

Currently, he's thoroughly enjoying the act of regaling his brother with his tales of dismantling his "husband's" pride in a matter of minutes. It might be one of the greatest achievements of his life, which sounds sad, but when you think about who Kiyoomi Sakusa _is,_ it really is impressive.

_**Atsumu** _ _**(** _ _**2:34 am)** >> [☒IMG_8112] _

_**Atsumu** >> LOOK AT HIM 'SAMU I DID THAT._

_**Osamu** >> yes i know your/my husband is a treasure_

_**Atsumu** >> THATS NOT WHAT I'M FUCKIGN TALKING ABOUT_

_**Osamu** >> oh, you mean the flowers? cuz i didn't notice those before. i'm blind remember?_

_**Atsumu** >> oh mr king of sass your so fucking clever _

_**Osamu** >> *you're_

_**Atsumu** >> _🖕

_**Osamu** **(2:36 am)** >> tsmu, wdy even have these pictures on ur phone?_

_**Osamu** **(2:40 am)** >> oh my god do u actually like him ?? do u think he's cute ???_

_**Osamu** **(2:42 am)** >> TSUMU DON'T YOU DARE STOP TEXTING RIGHT WHEN I'M ACTUALLY STARTING TO GET INTERESTED_

_**Atsumu** >> I DONT HES HORRIBLE AND AN ASSHOLE I HATE HIM._

_**Osamu** >> really ? so you just have these laying around then? _

Atsumu nearly chokes where he lays next to Kiyoomi, having to clamp down on the inside of his lip with his teeth to avoid waking the sleeping prince. 

It had taken an arduous amount of time to detangle the flowers from Kiyoomi's midnight curls, leaving the inky-eyed man even more irritable than he had been before. But Atsumu still maintains that this is by far the best thing he's ever done. 

However, there's no fucking way he's going to risk waking Kiyoomi from his precious fragile state of sleep because there's a high likelihood that such an action would result in a most swift and painful death. 

Plus, Atsumu wouldn't even be able to blame him. Everybody knows Kiyoomi's about as temperamental a sleeper as you get, jolting awake at the tiniest disturbance, turning into an absolute menace when woken at a time he deems unfit. 

Once he knows he's in the clear, he draws in a silent breath of relief before turning back to the now nearly blinding screen of his phone. 

_**Atsumu (2:45 am)** >> i can't hear you i'm asleep now bye_

_**Osamu** >> NO NO YOU ASSHOLE NO_

_**Atsumu** >> hey, you coulda had all of this, and you could be telling these fun stories but no_

_**Atusmu** >> you chose su-na_

_**Osamu** >> and it's still the best decision i ever made_

_**Osamu** >> don't gotta see ur ugly mug every fuckin day_

_**Atsumu** >> WE HAVE THE SAME FACE_

_**Osamu** >> yea but i wear it better_

Atsumu rolls his eyes and pushes out his bottom lip - Osamu can't see him, but he's sure his brother can _feel_ him through the phone. It's a weird thing, being able to see someone's expression across miles, but he guesses that's what happens when someone holds a part of you in their hands. 

_**Atsumu** >> oh fuck u i'm sleepin fr now_

_**Osamu** >> whatever dick sweet dreams_

_**Atsumu** >> asshole_

_**Osamu** >> prick_

_**Atsumu** >> love you samu_

_**Osamu** >> no_

_**Atsumu** >> ya gotta say it back_

_**Osamu (2:51 am)** >> no_

_**Osamu (2:55 am)** >> love u too _

\---


	10. ya smell nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mmm titties."

"A formal _fucking_ apology?!" 

Atsumu breathes out a deep sigh, sitting up from where he had been quite enjoying watching Olympic volleyball. 

Kiyoomi is maybe angrier than Atsumu's ever seen him. In comparison to the tortured fury that's playing out on his expression at the moment, his normal sharp glare feels like mushy summer sunshine. His abject shouldn't be hot, but then again he also shouldn't be married to Kiyoomi, so Atsumu figures that a lot of impossible things are actually plausible. 

"Well, it's just lovely thatcha came all the way down here ta talk to me Omi," he pauses the TV, lamenting the loss of his free time, not that most time isn't free time for him now. Apparently, getting married to a soon-to-be king means a total lack of responsibility, which is just Atsumu's cup of tea. 

"You're the only person in this entire goddamn place that I'm allowed to yell at without it turning into a _scandal._ "

Honestly, Atsumu should've expected as much. If Kiyoomi freaks out on one of the staff members, it's yet another press scandal to add to his growing rap sheet of political misdemeanors. If he tears his parents a new one, he might as well forfeit any leverage he has left. Atsumu seems a perfectly suitable option to take out his frustrations on.

That doesn't mean Atsumu has to like it, but he might as well entertain the idea. Plus, Kiyoomi seems pissed which is always some interesting combination of fun and terrifying. 

"Okay, I can sympathize with that. But y'know, it's not that bad," Kiyoomi looks at him incredulously, Atsumu figures that his point likely need further elaboration - it's true that, while to the general public, this may seem like a wholesome, virtuous act, it's basically just a way of giving up your pride for the sake of publicity. A twisted form of revenge so someone undeserving can get their fifteen minutes. 

"Trust me, as someone who's had to give their fair share a' public apologies-"

"That's not something to be proud of."

"I can show you the ropes."

There's a glare that turns quickly to a sneer, then finally settles into something that looks like shallow disgust - Atsumu knows this as a look of consideration. Atsumu likes to call it the I-think-you're-horrible-but-I-kind-of-need-you-for-the-moment look. It's the same one that's ever-present in many of their interactions. Most people might find it off-putting, but Atsumu's gotten quite used to it by now. 

After a moment of Kiyoomi merely studying him like Atsumu's a puzzle he can't figure out. Atsumu finds he - surprisingly - doesn't mind it. People don't really look at him like he's the interesting one, most actually assume that, since he's the screw-up, unsuccessful, loser brother, that he possesses a stark lack of layers or depth.

They might be right, but Kiyoomi seems to find him interesting enough, so he finds a grim sense of satisfaction in that. Yes, it does occur to him that maybe Kiyoomi isn't studying him like one studies a Rubiks cube, that maybe it's more of how a child observes a zoo animal, but he doesn't like that idea as much, so he disregards it.

"What?"

A dragging eye-roll, a re-explanation - maybe Atsumu isn't the dumb one here. 

"I mean I'll teacha how ta how ta give a _real_ apology."

"I can give a _real_ apology just fine, thanks," neither of them believe that, as is evidenced in the way Atsumu raises his eyebrows and Kiyoomi shies away. 

"Really? 'Cause ya got all the emotional range of a robot programmed fer road-rage. An' when ya get mad, ya get yell-y, an' I'm pretty sure that the last thing ya want when yer tryina apologize on national television is ta turn into Godzilla," Atsumu reasons. "But, if ya don't want my help, y'can just wing it an' hope everythin' turns out fine. Yer call." 

He laces his tone with a lethal dose of apathy - it really works every time, he doesn't know how people still fall for it (maybe he'd be a good conman? Manipulation and annoyance seem to be his only credible life skills, so it's really not a stretch).

"I really hate you," is what's growled in his direction after a moment of silence. Atsumu's going to take that as a yes considering Kiyoomi almost exclusively says that when he's mad at himself for needing Atsumu's help, enjoying Atsumu's company, or really feels any happiness at all in regards to his "husband". 

"Mmm, yes butcha need my help so ya don't fuck everythin' up worse. So, we seem to be at an impasse," Atsumu bends his head back so view his "husband" upside down - yes, if you were wondering, he's still just as pretty. The angle is just right so that it's borderline painful, but somehow comfortable. Just so long as you don't move an inch and accidentally snap your neck.

Kiyoomi takes a moment to consider him with dark, emotionless eyes. Atsumu wonders if he'd ever be able to fall in love with those eyes. They're beautiful, there's no doubt about that, but the endless void of space is also beautiful from a certain distance. Upon closer inspection, Atsumu hypothesizes he might find an empty sort of loneliness free-floating in dark irises.

He doesn't care to test the theory. 

Stars are ethereally gorgeous and the source of much poetry, but there are eons between them. Each is alone in its own right.

"Fine," Kiyoomi breaks a silence that could've been awkward and Atsumu wouldn't have noticed, too entranced with the mystery of his eyes to focus on something as trivial as the passing of time. 

He breaks into a smile, grinning with the knowledge of how he's going to hang this over his head - _"Hey, remember that time I save ya from tankin' yer reputation a second time?"_ Of course, that's not his _only_ motivation. Atsumu's far more intelligent than people give him credit for. 

"Okay, now ask me nicely." 

"I will hit you," - yeah, Atsumu had expected as much. It was worth a try, though. 

"Can't. That's spousal abuse."

"I _hate_ laws!" 

"Y'seem ta hate everythin' right now," Kiyoomi's beginning to lead the way somewhere Atsumu's not sure of. He follows regardless, pushing himself to his feet to trail his "husband" like a lost puppy dog - always one for an adventure, Atsumu's excited to see where they end up.

"Shut _up._ " 

\---

They end up in a familiar field, surrounded by flowers and open blue sky - clouds hang over them this time, casting an overcast glow despite the warmth of summer air still hanging jovially. It's a stark contradiction. Atsumu hopes the gunmetal clouds aren't foreshadowing of a storm. 

They sit down, Kiyoomi folding his legs most gracefully, Atsumu plunking down to the ground with all the elegance of an elephant. Facing each other, Atsumu can see every upclose detail of his face - his perfect skin (literally flawless, not a blemish save for the twin moles adorning his forehead if one can even call those blemishes. In truth, they are more like the remenants of stars from which the universe is made), his long eyelashes, his sculpted cheekbones. 

"So Omi, wheredya wanna start?" Atsumu does his best to smile genially, but he's almost one hundred percent sure Kiyoomi sees it as sarcastic. 

"Nowhere, can this be over?" 

Atsumu pushes a dragging eye roll, tips his head back to emphasize his point. 

"Alright, let's just start with a smile, right? Y'can smile. I've seen ya do it before," he insists with folded arms, straightening his spine and forcing presentibility. 

"That wasn't a smile," eyes narrowed, Kiyoomi tilt his head downward, the act of a petulant child. 

"Yer really not makin' this easy on me," Atsumu draws in a sigh through his nose, forcing himself to keep what little patience he was born with - his fuse has really only gotten shorter with time. "Okay, all ya gotta do is smile. It'll make ya look more friendly an' people'll wanna trustya, y'know? An' I know y'know how ta smile 'cause no one's gone through life experiencin' absolutely no joy. Y'know what? I think ya've even been... _happy-_ "

"Okay I'm leaving. I didn't agree to this just so you could bullshit your way through a lesson comprised entirely of sarcasm," the razor-edged glare returns, making its reprise with vigor. 

" _Omi, please_ ," Atsumu's not genuinely pleading for him, showering him with their relational equivilant of worship just to get him to stay put for two seconds. "I'm not tryina slight ya. I'm seriously just tryina help. D'ya know how inconvenient it is ta deal with ya when yer being moody OmiOmi? S'like tryina take care of a baby who only eats plain pasta."

Atsumu waits for his mini speech to have the effect it should, waits for Kiyoomi to stand up and walk away in a huff, waits for this lesson to be over before it even begins. 

The silence hangs so sterile in the air that you might think they were sitting in the cleanroom of a hospital. And Atsumu waits, and waits, and waits for him to leave - because Kiyoomi usually leaves, which he's fine with, though it makes everything one hundred percent harder. 

But instead, Kiyoomi sighs, matches his posture, and... _smiles._

Kiyoomi's beautiful smile is back with a bloodlust for Atsumu's heart and soul. Like poetry, it sings to Atsumu - he's never been one for stupid artsy words, but if Kiyoomi's lips would form around them for him, he might learn to appreciate their syllables. And Atsumu doesn't seem to be able to mind if Kiyoomi's being disingenuous about it, because at that lies is still art. 

"Now _that_ is what I call a smile Omi," Atsumu admires it with unabashed adoration. Beautiful is subjective, Atsumu chooses to think that it's not tethered to the heart. "That is a great first step."

" _First_ step? You know it took all my willpower to do that?" Kiyoomi's expression drops back to neutral, his smile is a figment of Atsumu's imagination, maybe never to be seen again. If it is doomed to be an ephemeral dream, Atsumu can live with that. "How am I supposed to-"

And then it starts raining. Because of course it does, just when they're starting to get somewhere. God, he almost managed to peel back some of those persistent layers, knock down another one of those annoyingly strong walls, and Nature just has to fucking interviene. 

Atsumu just shakes his head and guesses that's the way of the world. So it's going to make him wait. Fine, he can wait. He's patient as hell. 

He's torn from cursing Nature for its dry (or rather wet) sense of humor by a sharp yank on his wrist - stumbling to his feet, he blindly follow's Kiyoomi's lead through the sudden onslaught of rain. It pours down on them with a vengance, seeking to seep through their bones and blind their path back to the palace. 

Atsumu can't even begin to see where they're going, but Kiyoomi seems to know exactly what's going on. And when Kiyoomi's hand suddenly transitions from holding his wrist tight enough to cut off his pulse to curling boney fingers around his, Atusmu's brain for navigation might as well be rendered completely useless.

He's not pining, why is simple hand-holding having this effect on him? His head screams wrong, his hand tingles with warmth. It's a direct contradiction, it makes his brain do flipflops in his skull, thoughts trying and failing to wrap their malformed tendrils around his current situation. 

Kiyoomi stops, looks back at him through the rain as if to check he's still there, not lost among the ear-drum shattering sound of rain. Ebony hair is matted to his forehead, dark eyelashes made darker with the droplets falling from them, full lips glossy and pink, flushed with the sudden contrast of warm summer humidity and cold rain. 

He's pretty. Kiyoomi is so pretty. Atsumu wants the ground to swallow him whole into its endless abyss. 

\---

Atsumu shivers. Kiyoomi isn't blind, so he notices. 

He's been shivering since the moment they got back inside - some of the palace staff had freaked out over his well-being, but he'd insisted he was fine. And yet, Atsumu was still shivering hours later as they climb into bed, bathed in nighttime. 

He insists on wearing only a t-shirt even though Kiyoomi's told him to wear a sweater or at least something so he'd not vibrating violently beside him in bed, but Atsumu, prideful as always, refuses to heed his warning. Instead, he slips under the covers and curls into Kiyoomi's side as though that's something he's legally allowed to do. 

"No," Kiyoomi shoves at his shoulder to no avail - he won't deny that it feels nice, from a purely biological standpoint. That the warmth of Atsumu's body pressed to his chest and the way it feels to have someone wrapped in his arms, someone to hold, is pleasent. More than pleasent. Kiyoomi would go so far as to say he adores it - more than he should or is allowed to. 

But common sense tells him that this is so far out of the limits of okay, so he shoves the heel of his palm against the firm muscle of Atsumu's shoulder. The Miya prince doesn't move, stubborn as he is with cuddling as he is in every other aspect of life, apperently. 

"Go to your side of the bed or I will knee you in the balls," he asserts, or attempts to. Atsumu doesn't seem to care. Instead, he releases a pathetic whine, smushes his head futher into Kiyoomi's chest, mutters something muffled into his collarbone. Kiyoomi should be more mad about this. He tries to tell himself to make it stop. His body doesn't obey.

"Omi, please, I'm cold," and _oh,_ that's the most sincere thing Atsumu's ever said to him. No sarcasm, no hint of joking or inward laughter, no edge with which to slight him, just genuine, unabashed, honesty. It makes something warm tingle where Atsumu lays his head against Kiyoomi's heart. _Stupid,_ he curses himself and whatever part of his body is currently producing oxytocin and dopamine in copious amounts. 

"Fine, but _one_ night. This _never_ happens again, do you understand me?" If Kiyoomi's going to risk his sanity like this, putting it out on a wire, a tightrope walker, than he's going to do it on his own terms. And there are going to be rules as firm and hardset as stone. 

Gleaming hazel eyes look up at him in a kind of shock so innocent it should be sculpted in marble to be maintained in a museum forever. People should admire the glow in his eyes, hold the slight part of glossy lips in reverence. You can think something is art and not find it beautiful, right?

Except that Kiyoomi does find it beautiful. There's an inherent problem in that. 

The moment - whatever kind of moment is made up of fractured pictures of profound beauty and the constant push and pull of _'this is wrong'_ \- is broken when Atsumu smushes his face in between Kiyoomi's toned pectorals and mumbles,

"Mmm titties.'

"Oh my _god_ why? Why would you do this?" But he doesn't push Atsumu away, quite contrary to what he should definitely be doing at the moment. In fact, he actually finds hismelf settling into the feeling of Atsumu's body molding to his. They're two peices of a puzzle, but just because they fit like they were sculpted to be put together doesn't mean the picture has to be pretty. 

The picture is what matters in the end, right?

"Ya smell nice," is Atsumu's half-conscious answer. Kiyoomi shakes his head, and if he feels the corners of his mouth pull up just a little bit, he doesn't make a conscious effort to stop it. He blames it on the fatigue of running through a rainstorm, and Atsumu's "lesson" on how to talk to the press. 

"You're the worst."

"No, yer smilin'," Kiyoomi doesn't risk daring a glance down to see if Atsumu actually has any proof of his accusaition. 

"This is me dying inside," he says instead of, _I might maybe like this just a little bit,_ because his pride won't let him. And his common sense. And his personality. And everything other than all the places of his body that ignite at Atsumu's touch. "I'm retracting your cuddle privileges," - a half-hearted threat because, truthfully, he doesn't want to have to. 

"Nope, can't do that, no takebacks." 

"You're the worst human being I've ever met," that's not a lie. Atsumu is the worst person to ever enter his life. The Miya prince has fucking uprooted his entire life. He's made everything harder, made Kiyoomi's head a mad-house, turned his neatly trimmed garden into a jungle. IN that sense, yes, Atsumu is the worst thing ever to happen to him. 

"I'm the worst human being a lotta people've met, yer not special." 

And then there's silence, so still and un-Atsumu-like that Kiyoomi thinks he might've fallen asleep with that as his closing statement. 

It's strange to have peace, completely uninterrupted and stagnant, especially when Atsumu's the one who makes everything in his life so much more hectic. It's strange that Atsumu's breath is constant and his heartbeat is steady, strange that Atsumu is so much more grounded in this moment than he is. While he's free-floating in an ocean of his own thoughts, barely tethered to reality by Atsumu's presence, Atsumu is there. Just _there._

And then,

"My elbow's cold," yup. Just there. 

"Suck it up." 

He pulls the blanket over Atsumu's elbow. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah! okay so this isn't proof read because i'm under time stress but but i really wanted to get this chapter out tonight. i'm so sorry for any spelling mistakes or anything that's not up to par!!


	11. shake on it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We need to extend the bet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: the characters and events in this universe are fictional. while there is a lot of stuff modeled after the real world, i'm trying to keep most real-world politics out of this !

"I'm deeply, sincerely sorry for the way I acted," Atsumu can see how surface level the apology is, the emotions, the guilt he's supposedly feeling for tearing Kiori Nakomi a new one barely runs skin-deep. The remorseful upturn of his eyebrows, the slight downward curve of his lips, the slight slump of his shoulders. It's all manufactured - Atumus knows because he's the one who manufactured them. 

"I shouldn't have lost control of myself like that. And I know a press apology doesn't excuse my actions, but I hope you can forgive me."

It's hurting Atsumu's pride just watching him. In a crisp suit with fake emotion playing on his features, Kiyoomi doesn't look like himself. He's too soft and mushy, not at all like the heartless bastard Atsumu knows so well. It's like watching t-rex try to go vegan. _Off-putting._

The statement ends with no questions, as was requested before they began - likely because everyone knows Kiyoomi would've snapped half-way through being interrogated about his motives - just the flashing of cameras and an attempt at a sad smile from Kiyoomi. It looks a lot more like he's trying to cover up physical pain. Maybe he is. 

Back in marble halls, Kiyoomi has a fuse so short it's getting pretty damn close to disappearing entirely. Atsumu doesn't blame him - Atsumu has always been the one forced to issue formal apologies considering Osamu can (and truthfully, does) do no wrong. It's only because people seem to easily forgive even massive screw-ups when you say a little 'I'm sorry' and pretend to cry. 

It doesn't mean you see it as any less unjust. Look, if they were normal people, no one would give a shit about half the stuff they do, but since they're princes, you get docked points for forgetting to hold the door for someone - a misstep worth the royal equivalent of three years of jail time.

When you're royalty, people expect you to act as their standard for perfection, an unfair assessment at best. Being born into a certain family doesn't grant you higher status as a person than anyone else, and yet they float with the stars through no choice of their own.

"That was total bullshit. Never again," Kiyoomi grouches at a low rumble as deft fingers untangle his tie from around his neck. The voice is far different from the one he used with the press. This is the real Kiyoomi, the gruff, low-timbered, borderline perpetually-pissed. His public speaking voice is flowery and smooth, Atsumu likes it far less than his natural tone.

Atsumu scrunches his nose at the words - knowing Kiyoomi, this isn't likely to stay as a _never-again_ situation. 

Kiyoomi doesn't seem to have quite the same temper Atsumu does, flaring up and dying out just as quickly, but he seems to hold onto things longer. Add that on top of his already perpetually bad mood and you really just have a recipe for disaster in the body of a prince. And people call Atsumu a walking hazard. 

"Mmm, knowin' _you,_ y'probably _will_ haveta do that again, maybe in the near future. But, fer now ya getta take it easy," he pats his "husband" roughly on the shoulder, earning him a death glare that'd have him shaking if Kiyoomi could legally murder him. Technically, he could still do so. Atsumu pretends like that possibility doesn't exist. "An' I know ya don't know how ta have fun or really do anythin' but be unhappy, but-"

Atsumu can feel the muscles under Kiyoomi's thin dress shirt tense where he has his hand on his shoulder - Atsumu can only assume this is his "husband's" fight or flight is kicking in, the preeminent emotion being _fight._ As is most usual for Kiyoomi Sakusa. Atsumu gets the sneaking sense he's about to get punched. 

Atsumu's saving grace comes in the form of Kiyoomi's head-publicist - Kiko - complete with a headset and stiletto heels that actually make her taller than Atsumu. Her hair is almost as dark as Kiyoomi's (if that's possible), pulled into a tight bun that hands low on her head. A clipboard is perched on her forearm, a serious look creases manicured eyebrows. She looks like she's about to lead both of them to their deaths.

Maybe this isn't his saving grace after all.

"Um, Prince Kiyoomi, sir," she starts, far less sturdy than Atsumu had imagined her voice to be. Coffee-colored doe-eyes flick between the two of them, sorting out a mental puzzle they're not privy to. "Actually, both of you can come. One of you has to do it anyway." 

The last part is muttered under her breath like a curse, concealed by the sharp click of heels on marble tiles. She's scribbling something frantically, the scratching of the pen against paper is setting Atsumu's mind on edge, every one of his brain cells trying to figure out how this is going to pan out. Likely not good for either of them considering she's literally shaking her head as she talks. 

"Would either of you be interested in interviewing with Morozov?" 

Atsumu might pass out - what kind of question is that?! 

Look, Atsumu can tolerate talking to foreign diplomats, even when their views don't align. He can stand the flashing of cameras in his face, he can stand the baseless interrogating from the press, he can stand mind-numbing questions from interviewers and fans alike.

He can't stand the idea of talking to one of the most homophobic presidents on the face of the earth - why? Because, well, are you supposed to be able to stand talking to someone who openly demeans an entire part of your identity, and thrives on it? 

So, does Atsumu _want_ to talk to Vladimir Morozov? No, of course he doesn't, that's like setting himself up for a fucking disaster. But will he? Also no. Kiyoomi will just have to do it becuase Atsumu's a petulant child at heart and refuses to do anything he doesn't like no matter how bad it may be for anyone else. Not-husbands included. 

(Well, other than marrying Kiyoomi, but that was for Osamu. So he doesn't count that as part of his long rap sheet of selfish felonies.)

"Like...Vladimir?" Kiyoomi rasps out as Kiko sets a brutal pace down the hallway, dragging Atsumu and Kiyoomi along with her by the tether of necessity. 

"Yes, that Morozov. The president of Russia, in case you forgot," one thing Atsumu can appreciate about Kiko is that, unlike the rest of the palace staff, the only courtesies she spares to them that she doesn't normal people is calling them by their given titles. She doesn't mince words. 

"Do we get a choice in the matter?" 

"No, you have to do it for reputation reasons. I was just asking you to make you feel better about it," Kiko speaks in monotone almost as much as Kiyoomi does. "We're about to meet with a representative from the Russian government. Her name is Alisa, she's a harsh judge of character so don't make a bad impression. It can only hurt you-"

"Kiko, stop for a second," which she does. In regards to talking. Walking-wise, she keeps a constant and unabiding pace. "Why do we want this interview? Morozov is a _horrible_ homophobe. And in case you haven't noticed, we're homosexual. We're one of the only gay couples in the royal community."

"Exactly, that's why he wants the interview," she doesn't even look up from the clipboard. It would be terrifying if Atsumu wasn't currently just trying not to trip over his own feet to keep up with her. He's tried walking in heels before. It's borderline debilitating - don't ask, Atsumu lost a bet one time. "The young population of Russia is growing progressively more liberal, and the changing political climate means that Morozov needs to adapt to his audience." 

Oh, Atsumu can understand what that means as well as anyone. Even he's not _that_ stupid. He may pay absolutely zero attention to global politics and have no interest in them whatsoever, but he's capable of reading between the lines when it suits his needs. 

"So...Morozov, a massive homophobe, wants to talk with us, a gay couple, to prove he's not a homophobe?"

"Yes, in essence. But don't say that to Alisa. She'll get offended and the last thing we need is another press scandal with the Russian government right after that thing with Kiori."

Atsumu feels the dread well up in him like rainwater to a trench in a rainstorm - even ever-level-headed Kiko shouldn't have said that to Kiyoomi, who already has a short enough fuse fresh off of being forced to give an (admittedly unjust) formal apology. 

So he outstretches a hand to the side ever so slightly, brushing his and Kiyoomi's knuckles, if only to distract the inky-eyed prince before he can totally blow up. It doesn't work horribly - Kiyoomi eyes him with suspicion just long enough so that Kiko can take up half-informing, half-reprimanding them. 

"Be nice, be polite, and _please_ don't talk about how gay you are. It's going to be a sensitive topic," she informs them as they reach the door to the courtyard. Atsumu can see a woman with platinum blond hair and green eyes sitting on a bench padded with flowers. A soft smile rests on her lips, and Atsumu can only hope she's as nice as she looks. "Not for her. But it's better not to mention it. Now _or_ in the interview." 

Kiyoomi opens his mouth as if to protest such an injustice, but Kiko effectively cuts him off by swinging the door to the courtyard open. Alisa's head turns, she smiles at them like they're old friends, and Atsumu allows himself to believe that's a good sign. 

_Only nice people smile, right? Wrong, every politician smiles. But she's not a politician, right? But she works for one-_

Atsumu's mind rambles on as they take their seats across from her, Atsumu folds his hands in his lap - this is what respectful people do, right? 

Atsumu's parents were never ones for cordiality. They never taught Atsumu and Osamu how to talk to the press or representatives, they learned how to do that themselves- well, Osamu did. Atsumu never quite picked up the skill. Or rather, when he finally learned how to, he refused to use it. 

Alisa looks at them fondly, Atsumu feels out of place under her warm gaze. Are people you don't like by default supposed to be this nice to you?

"Hello, Prince Kiyoomi, Prince Osamu," she nods. Atsumu nods back in absence of a better gesture. "My name is Alisa Haiba-"

"Whoa, y'mean like Lev Hiaba the model?" Atsumu feels the heel of Kiyoomi's boot dig into his considerably less-guarded foot - Kiyoomi gets the solace of leather dress shoes, Atsumu's stuck with beat-up old sneakers that he refuses to throw away. 

But Alisa laughs, and it's musical, and Atsumu really wants to like her, but if she works for Morozov, she can't be any good, right? 

"Yes, Levochka is my brother. But we're here about you. I know what you're probably thinking," she's wringing her hands, Atsumu feels guilt knot in his throat. "But I'm not here to help Morozov prove he's some sort of angel. Actually, I'm kind of hoping he freaks out during your interview and gets a bad rep. But I _do_ work for him. So I have to talk to you about this." 

Across the table that separates them, Alisa slides a black blinder and a gold-trimmed pen, and Atsumu's first thought is, _holy shit, there's a whole binder?_

He's not a stranger to having to sign agreements for his interviews, just assurances to keep both parties in order. But he's never had to sign a whole binder of documents before. 

"He wants you to sign some simple documents basically saying that you won't disclose to anyone anything that goes on off-camera," Atsumu scrunches his nose - how does that not sound shady to her? 

"And if we don't?" Kiyoomi voices Atsumu's inner thoughts. 

Silence stretches thin before them, an extended road they have to walk before this can end. If they were inside, Atsumu might ask if it was getting hot. But they're not. Is there a way to feel like the vastness of nature and open blue skies is closing in around you?

"Kiko's already assured me you will," that earns Kiko dirty looks from both of them. The publicist keeps her eyes trained on Alisa, expression never wavering. 

Alisa flicks emerald eyes between the three of them - the Haiba family is famous for their eyes (Atsumu used to think they were enhanced, but seeing them up close, they're the genuine article) - seemingly sensing the mounting tension.

"On the bright side, only one of you has to do the interview, if that makes you feel any better," surprisingly, that actually makes it worse, because now Kiyoomi is staring at Atsumu like he's a sacrificial lamb for slaughter. "And you have a month before you have to decide. So you can take me as much time as you need." 

Her airy tone hardly reflects the situation. Atsumu would take a swan dive into a pool filled with wet concrete if it would mean he didn't have to do this interview. 

"So what you're basically saying is that we have to do this interview with your boss who hates us so we can help him look better?" Kiyoomi doesn't waste niceties, going straight for the point in plain terms that might have any other person shaking with rage. 

"Prince Kiyoomi, what did I say about being polite-"

"No, no it's okay. Honestly, I agree with you. My brother has a boyfriend too. You cannot imagine how that conversation went down," Alisa smiles, tilting her head in such a way that platinum blonde hair floats around her head like a halo. Atsumu bites his tongue to stop himself from screaming. 

"Should ya be telling is that? Yer brother is famous too y'know."

"Levochaka won't mind. He freaked out when I told him I would be speaking with two princes," she laughs, Atsumu relaxes. Atsumu's met with a lot of people in his time, and everyone is always so formal. It's nice to talk to someone who won't come undone the second you say something that could be considered "improper". "When I tell him I was talking about him when I should've been talking about work, I don't think he'll take any issue with that." 

"Holy shit can we meet him?!" Atsumu's always asserted that being internationally recognized is overrated, but there are some perks - e.g. getting to meet famous people. 

"Prince Osamu- I'm so sorry Alisa."

"No! It's totally fine. Levochka's in Japan right now, but I can give you my home number and we can talk about it more. If I tell him a prince wants to meet him I'll be a gold-star sister." 

Kiko's shaking her head, clearly debating whether it's too early to give up - Atsumu could find it in himself to feel guilty if he wasn't a child at heart. Kiyoomi seems to find amusement in the disintegration of formality. 

The "discussion" ends with Kiyoomi and Atsumu reluctantly signing the equivalents of NDA's and Alisa scrawling her number on the back of her business card, black ink rolling smoothly over fine cardstock paper in type-writer neat handwriting. 

Kiko reprimands them despite all three of them having seen the devolution of whatever proper-ness is supposed to be coming a mile away. Tells them they need to act like professionals next time ("If there even _is_ a next time," she adds for emphasis). Atsumu hopes there's not, if he's being honest. 

Atsumu could care less if his reputation dies and falls flat on its face. 

It ends with dread forming a plapable knot in the pit of Atsumu's stomach, with Kiyoomi radiating a type of aura Atsumu doesn't even have a name for. The last time he'd ever had to meet with someone who's so diametrically opposed to him on this level was before he was even out as gay. It's a lot easier to pretend you find a slightly homophobic stereotype "funny" when people think you're straight. 

In essence, it ends with Atsumu coming to the realization that he has to start brainstorming ways to pawn the responsibility of this off onto Kiyoomi. It's not what good husbands do, but Atsumu is Kiyoomi's "husband" not his husband. 

\---

Kiyoomi has a habit of interrupting Atsumu when he's just settling down into a comfortable rhythm or routine. 

"We need to extend the bet." 

Atsumu's mid-crunch holding his position to rip out an earbud and glare at Kiyoomi before flopping back to the mat like a dead fish. 

The east-wing gym encompassed within the palace is shiny, shimmery, and decked out as fuck. And it gets even better when you take into account the fact that Atsumu's the only one who uses it (whether it's because he's the only one on palace grounds who works out or the only one who has the free time to do it, he doesn't know). 

It's one of his happy places - the other is the kitchen because they always have strawberry pancakes. And he doesn't take kindly to Kiyoomi interrupting his enjoyment of his happy place.

"Why'dya always gotta interrupt me when I'm doin' somethin' important?"

"You mean like everything except your job? How is this important?" 

Atsumu rolls his eyes, stands up, and glowers, gesturing broadly to his torso - he's very proud of it, it's taken a long time to sculpt perfectly. Unlike Mr. Only Child, Atsumu's parents didn't hire physical fitness coaches for him and Osamu. They gleaned what they could from the sports they played and did their own research when it was pertinent. 

"Abs, OmiOmi. Look at them, touch them, if ya wanna," Kiyoomi stares at him deadpan, Atsumu counters with as sarcastic a look as he can muster. 

"I'm good."

"Whatever, Yer loss. Anyway, now that ya've ruined my workout, waddaya need?" 

Atsumu folds his arms and tilts his head, examining the serious expression scribbled across Kiyoomi's face - _okay, he's either about ta tell me someone died, or he's about ta hit me with one a' those weights. The first isn't ideal, but I could make second one work if it kills me on impact-_

"We should extend the bet," admittedly not what Atsumu was expecting. He'd only prepared for morbidity or death. 

"What? Why? That only disadvantages _you._ " 

"Not if we change the conditions of the bet," Atsumu's eyebrows scrunch at that, a refusal bubbling to his tongue immediately, ready to spill out with adamance before Kiyoomi says, "We can keep the original stakes but add the Mozorov interview. Whoever loses has to do it. Because there's no fucking way I'm talking to that human pus-sack."

Creative, Atsumu's never heard anyone call Morozov that before, but he supposes there's a first time for everything. 

"Wait, so I still get to keep my favor?" Atsumu didn't spend a month trying to manipulate Kiyoomi into falling in love with him just for this entire plan to come crashing down because of a homophobic asshole.

"Yes, and if I win you still have to sleep on the floor until I divorce you."

"But that shaves a month off the time that I have to...so really this benefits me more than _you_ -" 

"I'm not doing that interview," is Kiyoomi's final stance on the issue. 

Atsumu can sympathize. There are very few things worse than being publicly demeaned for a certain part of your identity, especially one you hold so dear. It's not like it hasn't happened before. Sometimes people don't even realize they're doing it, sometimes it's deliberate and you can't say anything about it. 

If Atsumu was a normal person, he could explode, he could throw coffee at someone or storm off in a rage and show the whole world that it's not okay to walk all over him. But he's not a normal person. So he lays down and bears the hard soles of tailored Italian-leather shoes digging into his sternum, and he does so with a smile on his face and a nod of his head. 

He can only imagine that it must be so much worse for Kiyoomi. He's alone. At least Atsumu had someone to gripe about it to, at least Atsumu could get away with the rare instance of disobedience, lean on the pillar of Osamu when things got too rough. 

_"It tends to be that way when you spend your entire childhood surrounded by rampant homophobia."_

Even Atsumu had people to support him. Kiyoomi has a world full of people who can't even look at him and a publicist telling him to suck it up. He shouldn't have to - he should be allowed to be angry and indignant and wronged. But he's a prince, and princes don't feel unless it results in a smile or a handshake. 

"Alright, ya have yerself a deal," Atsumu says, softer than he intended. He's never been good at hiding emotions with words. When the feelings play, fleeting across his mind, a movie he can't help but invest himself in, he's a slave to them. "Shake on it?" 

He extends his hand and Kiyoomi mimics his action hesitantly, suspicion tightening his shoulders as he outstretches his arm just barely enough for Atsumu to grab his hand.

Atsumu's grin is a warning, fleeting though it may be. He pulls Kiyoomi into a tight hug, looping a strong arm around his neck and burying his face against Kiyoomi's collarbone - the action is not wholesome as one might've hoped. 

Kiyoomi shoves at his shoulder, something akin to a growl clawing its way from his throat. Atsumu laughs as he stumbles backward toward the mirrored wall - more accurately, cackles like a fucking hyena because he's obnoxious like that. 

"You're gross. Jesus take a fucking shower before you even _think_ about touching me again," Atsumu's still giggling, high-pitched and screechy, clutching his side as Kiyoomi points a boney, accusing finger at him. 

"Y'could always join me," he manages to gasp out through fits of laughter. 

"Someone needs to make you a mute button." 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i'm so sorry i didn't update yesterday! i was planning on it and then things got super stressful and tiring and i had so much stuff to do ugh. but, it's here now~ thanks for sticking with me !
> 
> also i'm so sorry for those of you who read the thoroughly unedited version of this chapter where i totally forgot to call Atsumu by the wrong name. i got like five hours of sleep last night >.<


	12. i guess we're both lyin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not lonely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: this chapter has a mention of the f-word. it's not used directly toward a character, but i felt obligated to mention it.

It takes all of two days for news of the Mozorov interview to get out. From the point of origin, it spreads like wildfire, and suddenly, both Kiyoomi and Atsumu are drowned in press coverage. Which, normally, Atsumu wouldn't mind. Being charming is pretty much the only part of his inherited job he's good at. 

The only problem is that Kiko still doesn't want Kiyoomi doing any public interviews or really being in any content that's going to go on the internet for another few days because she's worried about another press scandal (she'd said it in much more eloquent terms, but both Atsumu and Kiyoomi can take a hint). Which basically means that, lucky him, Atsumu gets to do all of interviews _himself._

What's even worse is having to constantly think, _would Osamu say this?_ Because Osamu would be smart enough not to say half the things that bubble to the surface of Atsumu's mind. Osamu would be polite and say please and thank you. Osamu wouldn't be so loose with his body language and would use his hands to talk so much and wouldn't make borderline sexual jokes-

Honestly, being Osamu is no fun. Atsumu can see why his brother is so grumpy all the time.

Carlie is from Buzzfeed. She says she likes what they call the glass-room - basically just an indoor greenhouse with a domed glass ceiling - so they walk through the man-made jungle and talk about things Atsumu feels to be useless and unproductive. Carlie doesn't seem to share his sentiment, flame-red curls bouncing excitedly to match her eager step. 

"So, Prince Osamu- Oh, shit, am I allowed to call you by your first name?" Considering it's not his he has no right to speak.

"Yeah, yer all good," he has a moment of panic when he reads this situation from Osamu's point of view and his brother says, _'it's okay'_ instead of _'yer all good'._ He's being too casual. If he had the time or ability to, he would google how to be a tightass. Carlie doesn't seem to notice his moment of fleeting dismay. 

"I'm sure you're aware of who Vladimir Morozov is- Oh, by the way this is all being recorded. I've gotta let you know for legal reasons," Atsumu smiles and nods, bites back whatever expression his face wanted to make at her words. "So I'm sure you know who President Morozov is. How do you feel about him in general, disregarding your upcoming interview?" 

_I feel like he's an obnoxious douchebag who I want nothin' ta do with no matter how badly it affects my reputation._

"I think we have differing views on a lot of subjects," he supplies vaguely, keeping his eyes up and away from hers, as if scared she might see the dishonesty that lurks in his. Instead, he studies brilliant orange tiger-lilies the color of mini sunsets. 

"And there seems to be one where your views are... _quite_ differing," he bites his tongue to mask a sigh - she's really going to make him go there. 

The problem is that Atsumu doesn't know how mature and Osamu-like he can really be in the face of this discussion. His base instinct is to go down kicking and screaming. Even if he manages to ignore that, he's still leagues behind where Osamu is in the respectability department. 

Atsumu forces out a casual chuckle, an acknowledgment of the tension between them. 

"Y'mean because I'm gay?" He keeps his tone light, pats himself on the back for the perfect portrait of his brother he's painting, even if it's just with small brush strokes, and thumbs at the birthmark on his wrist. "Um, well, I think that we'll just have to see how it goes. I'm sure President Morozov will be polite and diplomatic, and it's an honor to be meeting with a president of an entire country-"

"You know you're about to be _king_ of an entire country, right?" 

And they both laugh - her with genuine amusement, him with relief. Maybe this won't be quite as bad as he thought. 

"If you're comfortable with it," which Atsumu basically reads as, respond or be ridiculed. "Could I ask you how you feel about talking to someone who has openly demeaned gay people in the past? Who has even used an insensitive _slur_ to describe them?"

Atsumu remembers that, remembers being seventeen and hearing the president of an entire country claim that "Faggots have no place in the justice system". And he falters - who wouldn't. 

_What would Osamu say?_ Is his anchor to the present moment, his tether to the ship to keep him from free-floating into the mess of memories and opinions and words that aren't princely enough to say out loud. _What would Osamu say?_

"I wouldn't go so far as to say all is forgiven - really _I_ don't have the power to decide that - but I think if President Morozov wants to shift toward acceptance, then that's a change I'd be happy to be the face of," _I'd rather stick a fork in my eye than sit talking to that fuckin' windbag for an hour._

Carlie's smile says what she doesn't in words, that she thinks that was a stellar answer. Atsumu lets go a sigh of relief masked in under the guise of a deep breath. He catches the earthy scent of flowers and trees stretching upward toward crystalline glass in his lungs, lets the moment cool him off. 

"Wow, that's such a mature viewpoint," _if only y'knew what I really thought. Damn, ya'd_ not _have that opinion._ "Okay, why don't we switch gears for a minute, get off all this politics stuff. I know I'm here to interview you about the Morozov interview, but I'm here for an hour so..."

Atsumu would have it in him to be happy about the subject change if he didn't predict a sudden onslaught of questions about his and Kiyoomi's relationship, definitely some about him and Osamu (or Atsumu, as she knows his brother), with a not unlikely chance that she's going to ask him about King Sakusa's cancer. 

Those are always the defaults when reporters and journalists want to "switch gears" it basically means "give me that shallow meaningless gossip". Look, Atsumu would normally be all for it - he loves shallow meaningless gossip when it has no effect on him. But trying to pretend to be Atsumu while also juggling what's appropriate to talk about is something his feeble mind struggles with. 

"After Prince Kiyoomi's coronation, are you two planning to put the two countries under joint rule?" Atsumu raises his eyebrows - he hadn't exactly expected that. But at least it's not another 'who subs' question. Those get real awkward in record time. Considering he and his "husband" haven't even so much as _kissed_ it's kind of hard to tell. 

"Uhm, we haven't talked about it, it's kind of a big deal so I don't want ta make any comments about it just yet," _yes, because otherwise, I did all this work fer nothin'._

"Fair, fair. And what about...now I know this is a sensitive subject, and I have what I like to call a no-pressure policy... but what about Prince Kiyoomi in regards to his father's cancer? How is he doing?" No, no no no, no, Atsumu's not going to answer that. 

There are some things that are just too dangerous to mess with, some issues that could get you into a kind of trouble you can't dig your way out of with formal apologies and heartwarming speeches. 

So he pauses, takes another deep breath of the soil scented air, and smiles. 

"Wouldja like ta go get pancakes? We have really good ones."

The expression on Carlie's face widens in surprise for a second at the sudden shift in topic before immediately snapping into understanding like a key in a lock. He lets her believe she's read between the lines, seen the truth of what he's trying to say even though what she knows doesn't even begin to get to the center of what's happening. 

"That sounds lovely, thank you."

\---

"She asked about my dad's cancer, didn't she?" Kiyoomi picks at his blackberry ice cream like he's never tasted anything sweet before. Maybe he hasn't. With his body, Atsumu wouldn't be surprised. 

"How'dja know," he's glum. Everything is glum. The thundering rainstorm of which they've been having a lot of recently casts long gray shadows across the shiny, polished to perfection atrium floor. Since they're the only ones in there, the lights are off meaning the only light that shines through is filtered through gunmetal clouds. 

"You're not talking your head off complaining about it. Which means that it either went really badly or you don't want me to know what you talked about," Kiyoomi can be quite observant when he wants to be. It really is quite annoying sometimes. "And since she left with a smile on her face and a box of leftovers I'm pretty sure it couldn't have gone that bad."

Atsumu pushes his strawberry ice cream away from him in a huff, folding his arms and dipping his head into the cushion they leave. Sulking, he pouts even though he knows Kiyoomi can't see him. 

"You know you're allowed to answer those questions. It's not forbidden," Atsumu feels his bowl nudge against his arm - presumably Kiyoomi's pushed it away from 'his side of the table'. 

(Kiyoomi has his own side to everything. He has _his_ side of the bed, _his_ side of the pool, _his_ side of the palace when they're arguing - apparently he likes the west-wing better than the east because the sun is too bright or whatever the hell his reasoning is.) 

"But that's the thing, Omi, I'm _not_ allowed to answer those questions," he perks up like an angry meerkat, stubbornly maintaining his bad posture in order to keep the comfortable cushion of his arms in the right shape for his head when he inevitably goes to mope again. "They're _your_ questions. I'm not allowed to tell reporters how _you_ feel about _your_ dad's cancer."

There's a moment of heavy silence, a moment where Kiyoomi watches at him, expression completely unreadable. It's almost soft, but still possesses that characteristic Kiyoomi Sakusa edge, the one that says not to challenge him. There's something untethered about the way he fixes Atsumu with an unwavering stare, as though he's not even present. 

And then he goes back to picking at his ice cream, only this time he's more pensive, stuck so clearly to the inside of his brain because whatever's going on up there is more interesting than anything Atsumu has to say. Atsumu watches with interest as Kiyoomi shuffles each slightly mushy blackberry to the side until he's formed a neat ring around the dome of his ice cream. 

Atsumu doesn't think he's ever seen Kiyoomi do anything messily. He doesn't know if he wants to. 

"You're too nice. Stop stepping around what you have to say and say it," Kiyoomi says finally, as if Atsumu trying to help him out has somehow offended his good senses. Atsumu has half a mind to get angry at him - he's doing exactly what he's told to for once in his life (keeping his mouth shut) and this is what he gets for it?

"I'm not bein' nice, I'm bein' 'Samu. An' 'Samu _is_ nice in case ya haven't noticed," Atsumu used to resent his brother for being able to effortlessly put on a facade, used to think it made him fake, that he was covering up who he was for the cameras. That was before Atsumu realized that that's what being royalty is. Osamu learned that lesson long before he did. "I would say next time _you_ can do the interviews, butcha can't. Y'know I'm actually doin' ya a favor here. It wouldn't kill ya ta be nice ta me sometimes."

Kiyoomi says nothing, releases a sigh, and goes back to his ice cream, his new favorite pastime, apparently. Atsumu continues to watch, in awe of how Kiyoomi can manage to make modern art from his frozen dessert (though he wouldn't deign to say such a thing out loud). He's not surprised that Kiyoomi is an artist. He's not surprised Kiyoomi thinks art is stupid. 

"I'm sorry about yer dad," he offers because that's what he has. He really is. Atsumu's far from heartless. He likes to tease and prod and joke, but when humor doesn't make the hurt go away, it serves only to exacerbate it - the line is a thin one, Atsumu knows how to pace it like a tightrope walker. 

"There's no point in being sorry. It's inoperable. Unchangeable. You're just wasting your sympathy," Atsumu knows he's lying. Everyone needs sympathy when they're going through something. No one truly thinks it's wasted. Kiyoomi might truly believe it, but it's not true. 

"Y'don't believe that." 

"I said it." 

"An' I said I'd be honored ta speak with Morozov. So I guess we're both lyin'." 

"I don't need someone to psychoanalyze me, thanks," the conversation takes a sudden turn for the worse when Kiyoomi looks up and is glaring daggers at him. Atsumu suspects he's struck a nerve, but he's just stubborn enough to keep going. 

"Y'know this might be why yer so lonely, Kiyoomi," the use of his full name seems to shock Kiyoomi into silence, if only for a brief moment. When his inevitable refusal comes, it is soft with half the confidence it should have considering who Atsumu's talking to.

"I'm not lonely." 

"I had a twin brother an' _I_ was lonely growin' up. Yer an only child, an' we were both born into a community that told us to keep who we are under lock an' key," Atsumu swallows to soften his voice, sticks his silver spoon repeatedly into his softening ice cream, mashing the already rapidly disintegrating strawberry bits. "There ain't any shame in bein' lonely. Y'can be lonely an' still be strong...or whatever ya think ya're. I dunno how robots view themselves so..."

"You say that but if you actually felt it you'd be trying to hide it too," Kiyoomi stands with his words, tossing his nearly untouched, perfect piece of artwork into the trash. Atsumu wrinkles his nose at how wasteful it is, at how he probably ruined the perfect ring of blackberries around the edge. "Like you said, we're both lying."

\---

Atsumu lays facing him that night - Kiyoomi started out with his back turned, a silent gesture that communicated all it needed to. Then about halfway through the night he flopped over onto his other side, one hand tucked under his head, the other outstretched at an awkward angle that no conscious person would be able to stand. 

Atsumu watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way long eyelashes flutter gracefully with sleep, the slight part of his lips. He studies with ardent interest the smooth line of his body, the perfect circular shape of the two moles on his forehead, how peaceful and unworried he looks. With sleep, Kiyoomi seems truly restful. His hard edge is gone and giving way to divinity. 

With a feather-light touch, Atsumu traces from the divot of his elbow to the pulse point of his wrist, lets his fingers linger there to press on a steady heartbeat, then laces their fingers loosely. He can feel Kiyoomi's pulse against his skin where their wrists overlap.

It's so warm. Atsumu wants to press his lips against the soft skin, feel Kiyoomi's heart beat against them - you know your lips have the most nerve endings in the body, one million. 

But he doesn't, because if he does it'll wake Kiyoomi up, and then Atsumu won't even get to hold his hand. So he settles for this, settles for resting his forehead as near to Kiyoomi's as he can without touching him, settles for this position which, though uncomfortable, brings him as close as Kiyoomi's dulled inhabitions will allow - his arm is stiff, his neck is going to cramp from the angle it's at.

And yet it's nice, and he feels at peace like this. And he realizes that, if he could, he would take Kiyoomi's hurt away. That's normal, to want to take someone's hurt away, to want to go to great lengths takes to do so. And he wants to. Sad Kiyoomi is no fun. Sad Kiyoomi makes him sad too. Sad Kiyoomi makes the gray clouds grayer and the sound of the rain damn near deafening. 

And though he masks it with anger, Atsumu can see it because he's been there. It's a universal tint, a shade that everyone wears at some point in their lives, and it's not hard to spot when you see it, when you've felt it. 

So Atsumu holds his hand through it, even though he knows Kiyoomi isn't aware of it. He doesn't need to be. Some would see it as a selfless gesture - comfort without expectation of reciprocation - but it's as much for Atsumu as it is for Kiyoomi. 

Atsumu doesn't feel or notice the curling of boney fingers around his own. Sleep sees to that nicely. 

\---


	13. so...y'like me then?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothin' ever really dies, Omi. People included."

**|** **ᴀᴛ** **s** **ᴜᴍᴜᴍɪʏᴀ** **s** **ᴀɴᴋʟᴇ** **s** _ʜᴀʜᴀ_ _ɪᴛ_ _'s_ _ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ_ _ᴀᴍ_ _ᴀɴ_ _ɪ_ _'_ _ᴍ_ _s_ _ɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ_ _ʜᴇʀᴇ_ _ᴡᴏɴᴇʀɪɴɢ_ _ɪ_ _ғ_ _ᴛʜᴇ_ _ᴍɪʏᴀ_ _ᴛᴡɪɴ_ _s_ _ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛ_ _-_ _ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ_ _ᴀɴ_ _ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ_ _ғ_ _ᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ_ _ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛʀʏ_

 **|** **ᴏ** **ғғ** **ɪᴄɪᴀʟʙʀᴇᴀᴅ** **s** **ᴛɪᴄᴋ** _ʜᴏᴡ_ _ʜɪɢʜ_ _ᴀʀᴇ_ _ʏᴏᴜ_

 **|** **ᴀᴛ** **s** **ᴜᴍᴜᴍɪʏᴀ** **s** **ᴀɴᴋʟᴇ** **s** _ʜᴏᴡ_ _ʜɪɢʜ_ _ᴀʀᴇ_ _ʏᴏᴜ_ _?_

 **|** **ᴘ** **s** **ʏᴄʜᴏᴘᴀᴛʜʏᴇ** **x** **ᴘʟᴀɪɴᴇᴅ** _ɴᴏ_ _ɴᴏ_ _,_ _ᴛʜᴇʏ_ _ʜᴀᴠᴇ_ _ᴀ_ _ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ_ _._ _ɪ_ _ғ_ _ᴛʜᴇ_ _ᴍɪʏᴀ_ _ᴛᴡɪɴ_ _s_ _ᴅʀᴇ_ _ss_ _ᴇᴅ_ _ᴇ_ _x_ _ᴀᴄᴛʟʏ_ _ᴛʜᴇ_ _s_ _ᴀᴍᴇ_ _ɴᴏ_ _ᴏɴᴇ_ _ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ_ _ʙᴇ_ _ᴀʙʟᴇ_ _ᴛᴏ_ _ᴛᴇʟʟ_ _ᴛʜᴇᴍ_ _ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ_ _._

The conspiracy theory was expected. Atsumu still feels like he's going into cardiac arrest when he sees the first post on Tumblr.

"I told you so," is Kiyoomi's reaction when Atsumu starts panicking.

"That's not whatcha do when yer husband's freakin' the fuck out!" Atsumu throws his phone at his "husband". Kiyoomi catches the small glass device with ease - it's kind of hot how his hand is large enough to wrap almost all the way around it. Atsumu pushes the thought aside in favor of agonizing like he had been two seconds prior.

The garden should be peaceful, in any other situation, the pastel flowers and the small pond where a single duck swims around idly, creating ripples along its glassy surface, should be calming. It should cause the stress to ebb from Atsumu's body, but instead, every sound is amplified a hundred thousand times and the summer air is suffocating. Kiyoomi doesn't even look up from where his book is perched in his hand.

(Atsumu will berate him about how pretty he looks in glasses later - and he really does. The round lenses frame sparkling eyes in a way one could only consider ethereally gorgeous. Atsumu wants to trace the contours of his face with those glasses on, slowly remove them and kiss over the skin they'd restricted.)

"Stop losing it. Conspiracy theories happen all the time. The queen of England has a doppelgänger, Kim Kardashian is part cyborg, then there was that whole Avril Lavigne thing," Kiyoomi fixes him with a narrow stare as he tosses his phone back - Atsumu fumbles with it, panicked, for a moment before finally steadying it with both hands. "It'll die out and people will forget about it eventually."

"Easy fer y'ta say! Yer not the one who's gonna take the heat if asshole decides it would be a fun pastime ta dismantle our lives," Atsumu laments, flopping down beside Kiyoomi and dropping his head to his shoulder. "So what ya gotta get married again? I'm gonna go ta jail an' so is 'Samu an' he'll never get ta marry Sunarin an' everythin's fucked."

Atsumu doesn't have good habits when it comes to dealing with stress, meaning that he tends to break down completely when he so much as perceives that things are going downhill.

Before, it was always Osamu who had to deal with his whining. Now Kiyoomi gets the pleasure. Atsumu pushes his head against the crook of his "husband's" neck, and when Kiyoomi doesn't immediately push him away, Atsumu decides that this is his moment to seek comfort how he sees fit.

"Why are you doing that? It's a hundred degrees outside," Kiyoomi continues to stare at his book, Atsumu perches his chin on a muscular shoulder and studies the graceful lines of Kiyoomi's cheekbones - no one should be allowed to have a profile so perfect.

"I require a constant level of affection just ta function Omi, y'should know this by now," Atsumu sighs blissfully, smushing a cheek against Kiyoomi's developed trapezius.

"Who says I'm going to give it to you?"

"Yer givin' it ta me right now, aren'tcha?"

"I could just as easily punch you in the face," Kiyoomi's reasoning is solid, but the relaxed nature of his muscles and the easiness of his expression suggest otherwise. Anger seems a non-factor - whether it's because of the sedation Kiyoomi finds in reading or because he actually doesn't mind Atsumu (for once), Atsumu doesn't know.

"Omi why'd ya have ta be so mean to me?"

"You're just being a brat. You know this has ramifications for me too," Atsumu doubts it. All Kiyoomi has to do is get married again before his coronation then divorce whoever he marries just like he's planning to divorce Atsumu. It's a simple equation really (and Atsumu sucks at math), and yet Kiyoomi seems to think there's something preventing him from doing just that.

"Oh really? Because yer so fuckin' attached ta me?"

"Yes, actually," that barely-a-compliment shouldn't claw at Atsumu's chest and twist his heart painfully, but it does because, despite there being a million reasons for Atsumu to hate Kiyoomi Sakusa, his body won't let him, even when it makes total sense.

"So...y'like me then?"Atsumu feels a smile tug on his lips - his plan is working. It feels cold to think of it like that, but the only other way to think of it is through the lens of his rapidly beating heart and quickly rising body temperature, and Atsumu doesn't think of that as an option.

"I'm beginning to learn how to tolerate you. Starting the process over with someone new would be arduous and annoying," Kiyoomi says too quickly with all the color in his voice of a film from the fifties.

Kiyoomi flips a page. The new words look exactly the same as the old ones - Atsumu's never been big on reading. He prefers to be active, out and about. Sitting for more than a few hours in end has him fidgety.

Atsumu flicks hazel eyes up to watch bluebirds bounce about on the branches of a cherry blossom tree. the dance around each other in a choreographed waltz, azure feather fluff and ruffle delicately with each movement. There's a sweet simplicity to the whole thing, a gentleness the doesn't require definition.

It's quite picturesque if he does say so himself, nothing like what he's used to seeing at home. The glow of city lights is aesthetically pleasing in its own right, but this view of nature is sating. Atsumu feels oddly peaceful considering he's almost never _truly_ at peace.

'Nature is pleased with simplicity. And nature is no dummy' - Isaac Newton said that. And it's true. But Atsumu is a dummy, so he'll follow nature's lead until such time as it becomes inconvenient.

"Well, that's high praise Omi, I'm beginnin' ta tolerate ya too."

And then they sit in silence, Atsumu's head resting on Kiyoomi's shoulder. Kiyoomi doesn't move him or even attempt to, instead reads his book as if there's no disturbance whatsoever. Atsumu revels in his compliance - Atsumu decides this isn't what falling in love is. Because with falling in love, it's all fireworks and sparks and not simplicity.

Thus, this is whatever sits between the trifecta of hatred, platonic friendship, and maybe something possibly resembling _like._ Yes, Atsumu knows that's a complicated definition of what he's feeling. But Atsumu has a list of things he knows are complicated that he's made the executive decision to ignore. This will just have to go on the list.

\---

_Kiyoomi stands, a lone figure painted in the foreground against slate gray skies and a tan hospital building - far less flashy than one might expect for a private establishment._

_His coat is white. He imagines he must look like a floating head with dark hair splayed out, a halo in stark contrast to fat snowflakes perching on his lips and eyelashes. When you stand in the freezing cold long enough, snow gives up on its determination to melt, resigning to rest upon flushed skin as colorless freckles._

_Kiyoomi should have a bodyguard with him, but there's no reason for another person to suffer the cold with him. He's already figured out three different ways to open a door without fingers should they fall to frostbite. So Sven sits in the car, watchful eyes stuck to Kiyoomi masked by dark sunglasses._

_When the glass doors to the hospital open, the typical routine ensues. Kiyoomi is met first with a small army of bodyguards cloaked in black, their postures severe, made only more so by the blanket of white that sheaths the world. Between the gaps in broad shoulders, Kiyoomi can see his parents._

_His mother's strides are clipped, a clear sign that something is wrong. She stops, looks at her son. Kiyoomi catches eyes that match his own in hue, but otherwise hold little resemblance at all. Sadness lingers over dark irises, foggy, Kiyoomi doesn't think his eyes would be able to show so much even if he tried._

_Her silence is his cue to jolt into action - far more difficult than it should be. Kiyoomi feels like a robot who's bolts haven't been oiled in far too long. Cold has stiffened his joints and paralyzed his limbs, so he walks fragmented and broken, as though he's just re-learning how to._

_Silence is a staple of the Sakusa family. At nineteen years old, Kiyoomi is smart enough to know not to talk when each person is so clearly holding back words - voicing his thoughts will break the dam and release the flood. So he says nothing, takes his hands out of his pockets and fiddles with his red fingertips - great, they're swelling. That always happens when he goes from a cold environment to a hot one too quickly._

_Kiyoomi hates riding in cars with other people. His family is no exception to that._

_"This isn't right," his mother is looking directly at him. Kiyoomi freezes - has he done something wrong?_

_"Kaori, no," his father's warning falls on deaf ears (Kiyoomi's always appreciated that about his mother. She doesn't stand up to his father often, but when she does, there's no stopping her)._

_"You have cancer, Akihito. Your_ son _deserves to know. How long did you think you were going to hide it from him? You only have a few years, eventually, he's going to find out," the snowflakes on his face are melting rapidly now, but they slide down numbed cheeks that feel tingly with the sudden introduction of a car heater._

_Kiyoomi's first instinct is to believe this is a joke - that's everyone's first instinct, is it not? To deny the impossible, to say 'haha very funny' even if it's just for the sake of their own sanity? But his family has never joked. On the rare occasions they do, they're no good anyway._

_So if this isn't a joke, then what is it? It can't be reality, that's for damn sure._

_He looks to the faded lines of his palms for the answer - in the years to come, he will consult multiple psychologists, more than one doctor, and exactly one fortune-teller who will claim he's destined to find a red-headed wife and have seven children. None of them will have the answers he's looking for just like his shaking, flushed red hands don't have the answers._

_They will offer him, one after another, bullshit bandaid solutions, and each time, Kiyoomi will go home, sit on his bed, and think until he falls asleep._

_Right now, he chooses to think about the interesting case of how all his blood seems to be rushing to his hands, effectively blurring the ensuing argument surrounding him. Kiyoomi's always been interested in anatomy and biology. He used to think he could become a doctor, probably a surgeon, before it was decided that he would become king._

_He thinks being a surgeon would be suitable for him. He has skill with his hands, the IQ for it, and a glorious overabundance of that key arrogance. It's too bad that studying isn't the only qualifier when determining the course of your future._

_The conversation at hand is apparently about him, but he doesn't seem to factor in. Kiyoomi's opinion about whether or not he should be allowed to know about his father's deadly condition is a non-factor, mute to the ears of his parents. Why should he get a say? Everything about him is always about his parents in the end. Does it look good for them? Does it look bad? Are they good or bad parents for this?_

_Kiyoomi keeps quiet as he always has. He thinks it will always be this way. He's right._

_Later that day he watches the snowfall from his bedroom window - he feels they're imminently headed for a full-on blizzard. And he thinks about how, though it may look like it, they're not in a snowglobe, magical as that would be._

_No, if they were, things would be beautiful instead of bleak, the snow would be fluffy instead of crunchy._

_Snow globes have no faults. Kiyoomi lives in a world of faults. Thus, the two are mutually exclusive._

\---

"The _moon_ OmiOmi, look, it's totally full!"

Atsumu's hand is tight around his wrist as he pulls Kiyoomi down darkened marble hallways. Silvery moonlight leaks through arching windows and falls on tanned skin. Atsumu looks no more delicate during nightfall than he does during the day, but equally as beautiful.

Hazel eyes sparkle, full lips pull into a childish smile, Kiyoomi would be a fool to turn him down. He'd also be a fool to tell Atsumu that he's thinking about the way moonlight plays on his cheekbones instead of the words coming out of his mouth.

"You woke me up at two in the morning for a moon?"

"Yes, obviously, or else ya'd be asleep right now," his reasoning sucks, Kiyoomi should turn around right now, but he's tired and pliant under Atsumu's callused fingertips. Plus, the moon is pretty and Atsumu is pretty and he keeps getting them mixed up in his sleep-addled brain.

So he lets Atsumu pull both of them toward the courtyard, letting himself be guided through the doorway and among the garden - everything looks so much more graceful and looming the darkness, long shadows stretching moon-struck leaves high above their heads. Atsumu looks up in a trance and flops down on one of the benches, fixing hazel eyes on the milky half-planet above.

Kiyoomi's never been interested in astronomy. He's always found earthly matters far more interesting - or at least more pressing in the current moment. The thought of any problems beyond earth is just a little too much to bite off at this point in his life. Plus there's a loneliness to space that he doesn't have a name for. Thinking about the fact that they are a planet of inconsequential beings floating in a sea of nothing is a rabbit hole he doesn't desire to explore.

He much prefers here. Even if _here_ is where all his problems seem to reside. Kiyoomi doesn't wish to escape. He has oftentimes wished he could skip the journey and come out on the other side of _everything,_ but he has never longed to escape.

"See, Omi? It's pretty. Y'gotta admit that much."

Kiyoomi looks at him - Atsumu is prettier than the moon, at least in the moment. With his navy pajama pants dotted with cartoon polar bears and his loose tank top beautifully putting on display well-developed musculature under tanned skin, he looks empyreal, a work of modern art that belongs to no one but the heavens.

And then: _oh god, stop staring at him._

Kiyoomi chooses a rock to look at next. Its rough, dull surface is nothing in comparison breath-stealing glow of smooth skin and full lips. But it's better for his sanity. Just like eating raw vegetables, however unpleasant, is good for your health. Staring at a rock instead of your "husband" who you _don't_ like has the same effect.

Silence stretches between them like a tightrope they're walking in unison. Atsumu breathes in warm midnight air and smiles, Kiyoomi tries to pretend like he's relaxed and not inwardly freaking out. Atsumu should get uglier so that he doesn't have this problem, but they both know that isn't going to happen.

"I'm sorry Omi. About what I said before," Atsumu's voice is uncharacteristically soft. Kiyoomi decides that, while it should be a welcome change, he doesn't like how it sounds. It doesn't sound like Atsumu's voice. It's too quiet and hesitant, too much like a normal person to qualify as _Atsumu._ Where is the cocksure arrogance he drags around with him? "I'm sorry I upsetcha."

"You should stop apologizing," Kiyoomi swallows whatever feelings such a sincere apology gives him. So they well in his chest, unable to escape the confines of his lips. To compensate, Kiyoomi says, "It's annoying."

Atsumu pouts, bottom lip pushed out as he slumps forward slightly. From unbearably beautiful to unbearably cute, Atsumu doesn't seem to have it in him to give Kiyoomi a break.

"Then what d'ya want me ta say?"

"Mmm, nothing would be nice," Kiyoomi hums. When he worries _they_ will change, he's found that the best way to curb the situation is to thrust them back into their old dynamic without mercy, regardless of how cold or heartless it may seem.

"Y'know that's not gonna happen."

"Yeah, I know," he knows. He didn't expect otherwise. In fact, it's far more satisfying to be proven right than for Atsumu to obey him.

Silence swallows them whole, Kiyoomi submits to its stagnancy.

How he feels about his father's death is a tricky question. How is he expected to feel? Everyone knows, himself included, that's he's sad, that he's angry. He wouldn't be human if he didn't feel one or both of those things. But feelings are more complicated than sad and angry. Feelings like the relief of knowing a figure who's been dead-set on molding every aspect of his life will be gone - the overwhelming guilt that accompanies that relief. The emptiness that Kiyoomi knows is preemptive. The overwhelming urge to cry even though he doesn't know exactly _what_ he's crying over.

Grief is merely the ballroom that all these other emotions dance in.

Atsumu punctures his thoughts and the silence surrounding them. He always seems to, honeyed voice a razor's edge that cuts through peace and quiet.

"Y'know, when me an' 'Samu were twelve, we had this Hamspter names Goodies, right?" Kiyoomi turned his head as if Atsumu's pinched him, scrunching dark eyebrows in unfiltered confusion. Atsumu doesn't look at him, nor does he even acknowledge Kiyoomi's acknowledgment (an offense if Kiyoomi's ever seen it). Kiyoomi doesn't acknowledge over half of the words that come out of his "husband's" mouth. 

"He was the fuckin' best. Adorable little fucker, an' super soft too. He liked ta climb all over ya."

Atsumu emphasizes his point by scittering callused fingers up Kiyoomi's tricep, dropping them away when he reaches his deltoid. But the momentary, characteristic action is off-set by the almost whimsical look in hazel eyes as Atsumu turns his attention back to the milky moon. 

"An' one day we took him ta the vet cuz he wasn't eatin'. An' the vet told us he had a tumor," Kiyoomi feels a pang in his chest, sadness over an event he hadn't even witnessed, for an animal he hadn't even known. "They couldn't get it out so it kinda just sat there an' grew on his back until y'could see this ugly lump. Goodies didn't move around much after it started growin'. He jus' kinda sat there. Didn't even crawl up our arms anymore."

Kiyoomi swallows thickly - there was no change in his father. There was no sudden lack of warmth, no sudden drop-off of usual affection. Akihito Sakusa is the same cold-hearted man after cancer that he was before. He wonders if he would've preferred a Goodies-like father over the one he has. Or if maybe it would make everything a hundred times worse. 

"So, as ya probably guessed, Goodies kicked the bucket," Atsumu chokes out eloquently, though his voice is uncharacteristically soft - his words don't match his tone. "An' when he did, me an' 'Samu made him a little coffin out of a shoebox. Ma offered to buy a tiny hampster-sized coffin, but we wanted to make it ourselves 'cause it's more special that way."

Which sounds exactly like something Atsumu would do, by the way. Kiyoomi resents his brain for supplying him with such a fact. Curses himself for believing that Atsumu Miya is sweet, sentimental, thoughtful. He is all of those things, but he hates himself for knowing it. 

"So we made him the coffin and put little pillows in it so he'd be comfortable an' all. An' we buried it in the ground an' had this really- I mean _really-_ decked out funeral fer him with cake and hor d'œurves an' everythin'," Atsumu smiles and it's sad - Kiyoomi realizes belatedly that he doesn't like this smile, this sad, longing smile that lacks his cocksure edge. 

"An' a few months later when we went back to visit the grave, there was a neat little patcha' flowers growin' right where we buried him."

Silence follows his words like a preschooler hanging on a rope so as not to get seperated from its group. Tightly and with confidence, as though it's always occupied the space between them. 

Kiyoomi's lips are dry as the fucking Sahara desert, the action of his tongue darting out between them does little for his problem as he tries and fails to swallow all the words bubbling up on his tongue.

"So...the point of your dead-hampster-flower story is...?"

He knows his words are insensitive, but when Atsumu turns to look at him, hazel eyes regard him with softened compassion. In the moment, Kiyoomi feels undeserving. His brain questions exactly what he's done to be rewarded with such soft eyes and a gentle smile, what actions have lead him to this moment. Even with someone you shouldn't like, you can find moments that make your heart falter. 

"Nothin' ever really dies, Omi. People included," Kiyoomi wants to tell him his gentleness is gross. But his words are stolen by the sudden heaving of his chest. "Those were Goodies-Flowers. Which sounds kinda gross, but...Goodies died so those flowers could live."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better about my dying father?"

Atsumu laughs, then. Quiet and musical like the chirping of springtime bluebirds. 

"Ya give me too much credit, Omi. I was just tellin' ya a story about my hampster." 

The gaps in conversation feel like he's pausing their movie intermittently - he wishes he could see how it ends. 

If he could, maybe this could be over. Maybe he could know whether to let himself indulge in Atsumu Miya or whether to push him away. Maybe things wouldn't be so fucking complicated and maybe he wouldn't feel like he's fucking drowning in clean air. 

"Y'know ya can hold my hand if ya want," Atsumu break him from his trance - Kiyoomi hadn't even noticed that his hands are balled into fists on his thighs. Had he been restraining himself? Was thinking about holding Atsumu Miya's hand translating into real-world actions? He needs to stop thinking about Atsumu. But that would mean halting thought process altogether.

Whether he likes it or not, the Miya prince has infected every part of his life. _"Positive or negative, it's just the way things are, Kiyoomi,"_ is what his father always used to tell him. Still does when things get tough and he doesn't want to bother with compassion. 

"I don't want to hold your hand."

"Okay."

And then he's nudging Atsumu's hand with his own, slipping bony fingers against thick, callused ones, connecting them in a way that shouldn't feel a familiar comfort but it does. 

Kiyoomi hates Atsumu's free-flowing compassion. Hates how he texts his brother goodnight every _fucking_ night even if they don't actually talk. Hates how affectionate gestures slip out easily - or purposefully - how they make Kiyoomi feel warm despite his best efforts to resist. Hates how Atsumu holds his hand when he thinks he's asleep. 

He hates it because it's compassion without expectation of reciprocation. Atsumu gives, is content just to _give_ even when he doesn't get anything in return. He's happy with that. Kiyoomi is too selfish to be happy with that. Atsumu isn't. Kiyoomi hates him for it. Or maybe he doesn't, which only makes his resentment more potent. 

"Mmm learnin' ta tolerate me my ass. Ya like me," Atsumu's head drops to his shoulder, hair so soft it could be godly tickles his jawline. Kiyoomi inhales a sigh. 

"You're only ruining this for yourself."

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ╥﹏╥ i'm so sorry i didn't post last night. i swear i'm going to apologize for this every chapter~
> 
> also, shotuout to my best friend and her hampster Goodies who sadly passed away due to a tumor many years ago <3 this chapter is dedicated to her and Goodies ! <3


	14. we need to talk about your brother - p1. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can ya just do me a solid an' fall head over heels in love with me?"

It has be come something of a routine for them, laying in bed on their phones, mutually ignoring each other because both of them are too tired to deal with the inevitable bickering actually talking brings. Plus, when one of you is in interviews all day only to come back and have to deal with your "husband" it gets difficult to be anything but irritated.

Honestly, Atsumu hates having responsibilities. He misses the good old days (meaning roughly three to four days ago) when he didn't have to meet with a seemingly endless supply of reporters and could instead focus all his energy on getting Kiyoomi to fall in love with him. There's been a serious lack of progress in that area since Kiyoomi was put on house arrest and Atsumu had both of their jobs ushered onto him.

So all Atsumu can do is wait out the storm and make the best of Kiyoomi being completely unable to escape - at least for now. He has to have a break between interviews eventually right? This isn't a hopeless situation. And even if it was, Atsumu would still find a way to McGyver it into submission. That's just what he does (regarding everything except what he's supposed to do).

For now though, he'll rest, allow himself to relax. Plus, he's texting with the second coolest person on the planet (yes, the first being himself) which means that he can spare a little time out of his busy schedule filled with 'make Omi's life hell' for this quiet moment.

Alisa >> No Kiyoomi is way hotter than channing tatum.

Atsumu >> are you fuckin with me no he's not

Alisa >> he's your HUSBAND why am i the one defending him?

Atsumu >> just cuz we're married doesn't mean i like him. it was arranged luv.

Alisa >> damn i keep forgetting about that u guys are like perfect

Atsumu >> yeah. we only look good together because both of us are really attractive

Atsumu >> you put an eight and a ten together and you get like, almost god tier

Alisa >> so.. you're the eight, right?

Atsumu >> fuck you

Alisa >> if anyone ever saw these you'd be screwed. s c a n d a l.

Atsumu >> but they won't right.

Alisa >> yeah, obviously probably not.

Atsumu >> PROBABLY

Atsumu >> ALISA PROBABLY ???

Alisa >> I'M MESSING WITH YOU OH MY GOD

Atsumu >> WHY ARE YOU SO THIS WAY

Alisa >> you've known me for seven days

Atsumu >> and i've known my husband for a little bit over a month. your point is?

Alisa >> touché

"You're talking to Alisa?" Kiyoomi's voice has Atsumu jumping next to him, so much so that he almost drops his phone on his face in his panic. Instead, he presses it to his chest to hide the evidence of his criminal activity. The Miya prince sends his "husband" a side-long glare, defensivness burning up in him like setting fire to a lumber mill.

"What? She's cool! She's gotta gay model brother too, we're good," Kiyoomi's expression is incredulous - pretty because he's obviously incapable of doing anything ugly, but disbelieving and skeptical as always. One of these days, Atsumu is going to be right about something and Kiyoomi's just going to have to suck it.

"Her having a gay model brother does not qualify her as cool."

"Doesn't it though?"

"What? No-"

Atsumu huffs and flops on his side to face his husband officially. Kiyoomi looks delicate and it's hardly fair. Just once, Atsumu wishes he could maybe be ugly. Because then at least there wouldn't be this horrible interference, like static while trying to watch an entertaining program.

"Omi, I might get to meet a model, don't ruin this fer me," for the nth time, he's whining, smushing his face into the pillow as if he can hide away from his "husband" and sulk, not that he doesn't do a sufficient amount of moping while under Kiyoomi's watchful eye anyway.

"Why are you so excited about this? Planning on cheating on me?" Atsumu perks up at that, nosing at Kiyoomi's cheek to reclaim his attention back from his phone.

"Why? Wouldja care?"

Kiyoomi scrunches up his nose at the implication, utterly ignoring the soft touch of Atsumu's face to his as he says,

"Nice try," an eye roll so dragging that it makes Atsumu's head hurt is what Kiyoomi receives. Atsumu's willing to go through the pain to prove his exasperation.

All he's trying to do is make this man fall hopelessly in love with him. Is it too much to ask for Kiyoomi to do his part - the falling part? You know, this is why partner projects never work out, because one of them never holds up their end of the deal.

"Fuckin'- Can ya just do me a solid an' fall head over heels in love with me?" Atsumu turns his head to the side and regards his "husband" with a petulant gaze. Kiyoomi seems to have the same idea because they're less than inches away now, lips so close Atsumu could lean forward just a fraction and kiss him. Neither of them will make that move, he knows, which is the only rationale keeping his racing heart from beating out of his chest.

What would it be like to kiss Kiyoomi Sakusa anyway? Has Kiyoomi even kissed anyone before? He wears chapstick all the time but Atsumu’s never gotten around to snooping enough to find out which flavor it is. And so, would he taste like his chapstick or something else entirely? Obviously his lips would be soft, but would he be an intense kisser? Of would it be soft and gentle, the soft caress of lips against his-

"Omi I'm really tryin' here," whispered, a little bit unsure - Atsumu decides he wants a re-do on that statement.

Kiyoomi seems to consider his argument with a deadpan stare - Atsumu feels this could either go the route of Kiyoomi crushing their lips together or...crushing his skull. So he could either get a really hot make out session. Or death. Maybe both.

He gets neither of those things, which is almost worse.

"And you're really failing too."

"Yer the worst husband."

"Uno reverse."

"Hey?! Ya said I couldn't legally use that as an insult!" Atsumu glowers thinking of the first and last time he'd ever been allowed to use 'Uno reverse' as a comeback. ("You make the light in my soul fizzle out." "Uno reverse." "You can't legally use that as a comeback." "Yer not the boss of me." "I'll punch you in the face. For real.") That conversation had ended quickly.

"I said you couldn't."

Atsumu huffs, flopping himself fully across Kiyoomi's torso so that the inky-eyed man can barely breathe. He waits for the heel of a palm digging into his side, for the puch or the kick that sends him rolling off the bed and onto to the harsh floor below. It never comes.

"Andja call me the worst."

Kiyoomi barely reacts to the sudden invasion is his personal space, merely choosing to wrestle his arms from beneath Atsumu's body so he can continue to scrolling through his phone with the Miya prince's back as an armrest - an adjustment, whether purposeful or not, it is an acknowledgment of the space Atsumu takes up in regards to him. Atsumu doesn't like it. It makes his chest tickle and a sigh leave his lips.

"Yeah, because it's true."

The moment is tender in an intimate sort of way, and Atsumu finds himself reveling in it before he has the chance to catch himself red-handed in the act of actually enjoying Kiyoomi's company. He is a man on the run from a self-imposed law.

Whether consciously or not, Kiyoomi is limiting the pressure on his back to avoid hurting him. Atsumu can feel steady breaths against him, feel the gentle rise and fall of Kiyoomi's chest in time with his own, feel his heartbeat. All of these are problematic facts because they're lulling and they make the moment a soft, mushy, amorphous thing that Atsumu is incapable of molding to his will.

Atsumu is no control freak, choosing to go with the flow - aggressively so, sometimes even to the point where it gets him in trouble - is his M.O. But the way authority over this moment slips from his grasp like sand in an hour glass makes him feel like he's drowning. He can't figure out how to breathe or think about anything beyond the firm abs moving in steady motions beneath his own.

In the moment, before he can wrangle in his own thoughts, Atsumu feels the burning urge to hug and hold in all the ways a real husband might. For the first time since he's been married to Kiyoomi, Atsumu wants to be his husband. Not his "husband".

He doesn't quite know what to do with that thought, so he doesn't do anything, instead wrapping himself in the warmth of the moment. He'll panic and overthink later - he knows he will.

But they have time, not that Atsumu will at all use it wisely.

\---

Morning brings a domesticity that Kiyoomi basks in - the warm sunshine falling across his face, Atsumu asleep on his chest, heart beat steady with his breaths, the calm, moreover the normalcy, that hangs over him in his drowsy haze is sedating. At least until he realizes this is what real husbands do.

And then he's panicking, stuck between letting himself enjoy the moment and immediately standing to end this before it snowballs out of his control.

On the one hand, this picture perfect moment in time is crafted with skilled precision, painted in honeyed brush strokes, it would be a shame to waste it. Plus, the only thing that allowing himself this would hurt is his pride.

But on the other hand... Atsumu Miya is drooling on his chest and he's enjoying it-

The morning starts with Atsumu falling to the ground in a heap of his own limbs, glaring up at Kiyoomi through sleep-addled eyes, misty with the memory of restfulness that Kiyoomi had so rudely stolen from him - can you blame him? He had a sleeping angel on his chest who he's supposed to hate and instead is definitely not falling just a little bit for.

He's playing right into the hands of the man who's supposed to be his arch nemesis and he can't even bring himself to rue the process.

Could you? Kiyoomi can't hate the tickle in his sternum or the fluttering of delicate wings in his stomach or the smile he feels a genuine presence in his life whenever he's with Atsumu and it's pissing him off.

To be fair, it doesn't take a lot to piss Kiyoomi Sakusa off. He's not an exceptionally tolerant person and he would laugh in the face of anyone who claimed him as such. But not-hating Atsumu Miya currently takes top spot for the object of his hatred. The not-hating of it all makes him hate it all more - does that make sense?

Breakfast is an awkward affair because Atsumu's constant need to run his mouth is sedated by the bruises blooming along the left side of his body - did Kiyoomi slightly overreact? Maybe. Was freaking out and pushing Atsumu off the bed upon realizing that he starting to get used to and, worse, actually starting to like Atsumu Miya's presence a bit much? Also maybe bordering on yes.

He ignores the reality of the situation and mulls over how to go about processing this as he picks at eggs Benedict. He's never hungry in the morning. If he's being honest, they shouldn't waste food on him before noon because he's not likely to eat it, and yet when he comes down to the dining hall, Carl is always there waiting for him with a fresh plate of food.

He's halfway through a heart-healthy glass of water when he feels a pair of feet on his thigh under the table - his first instinct is to glower and make an absent-minded attempt at pushing them away, but the owner of said feet resists.

"Hey," Atsumu bites out, far more hostile than Kiyoomi's used to hearing him, and with none of the sarcastic charm he insists on toting around with him at all times. "Y'don't getta be an asshole this morning. Not after the shit ya pulled."

Atsumu stabs a fork into a strawberry waffle and bites off of it like it's cookie. His horrible table manners shouldn't be cute but they are, Kiyoomi wonders how fucked up Atsumu's got him and if there's a cure for this disease. He can't live like this. It's slowly killing him.

The faster he falls, the further he spirals. The more he likes Atsumu, the more it makes him resent Atsumu. He's stuck in this paradoxical loop of emotions with no way out and no way to make sense of it, a trying challenge for someone who's never had to deal with emotions for another human being this intense in their entire life before.

"Maybe you should stop laying on me and start utilizing your own side of the bed if you're bothered by my reaction when you don't," Kiyoomi supplies coldly - the blame game is always an easy out, Kiyoomi finds, and one he's recently discovered (thanks to Atsumu Miya) he's not at all below using.

"Or maybe y'could stop bein' a hardass an' lemme cuddle with ya 'cause yer my husband an' I deserve them," Atsumu rolls pretty hazel eyes and leans on his elbow like he's proposing a business deal. Kiyoomi scrunches his eyebrows together, forcing his scowl a little more than he should normally have to - this is his fucking default. What is happening to him?

"Or maybe I don't want to cuddle with you because we're not actually husbands."

"Oh my god, Omi," Atsumu downs half his glass of orange juice in one swallow before tearing another bite off his waffle as though he has a personal grudge against it. "Can ya just stop dancin' around this an' admitcha like me? There's not shame in it, I'm a very likable person."

Kiyoomi shudders at the accusation, refusing on principle to admit even a little bit that his adverse reaction to such a statement is because it might be a little bit true. Instead, he pushes his glass away from him and grabs both of Atsumu's ankles in one hand, forcing them off his lap - Atsumu huffs and pouts. It's not adorable.

"One, I don't like you, and two, with you, there absolutely is shame in it," Kiyoomi pushes his plate across the table with a screech, illustration of his appetite lost on him just from discussing the idea of him liking Atsumu.

He stands up abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over in an effort to escape this crippling situation. The singular moments where Kiyoomi's completely and utterly lost control of himself have begun to snowball beyond the limits of passable instances or individual one-offs. In other words, it's starting to become a problem.

His best shot is to ignore the problem until he can get rid of it entirely, until he can kick Atsum into the curb without raising an eyebrow of suspicion.

However, he's stopped from the potential satisfaction of a storm out by the familiar click-clacking of high-heeled shoes on marble tiles.

Kiko enters the room, dragging her professionalism with her like a storm cloud - the only time Kiko ever consults them directly is when something fucked up is happening, or when she's really excited about something that's probably, in reality, fucked up. Publicity is fucked up. The world is fucked up.

She looks exactly the same as she always does - hair neatly tucked away in a low-hanging bun, suit top and pencil skirt neatly ironed, shiny black clipboard perched on her forearm at a forty-five degree angle. Except that this time she wears a stormy expression which likely means that one or both of them have fucked up in some way and are about to get reprimanded for their insolence.

Kiyoomi would run, but Kiko would catch him - a little known fact about Kiko’s signature high heels that are from target and not designer because she’s not a bitch like that, are that they’re actually just there to put a damper on her power. She reminds Kiyoomi sometimes of Princess Kiyoko (the Shimizu’s and the Saksua’s used to be quite close before it turned out that there was not possibility for marrying their two children in the future. After that is was pretty much all bets are off).

But he wouldn’t dare tell her that because, despite Kiko being his head publicist, she has a deep and unabiding hatred for almost all royalty (Kiyoomi being the exception because “you’re not an appearance-obsessed basket of shriveled dicks” - growing up poor gives you a certain vision of what royals are like. Kiyoomi would be too scared to admit out loud that she’s not that far off).

Kiyoomi waits for her to tear him a new one (because that seems to be one of her favorite pastimes considering how many political missteps he tends to unwittingly partake in). But instead, dark eyes land squarely on Atsumu in all his sleep-ruffled glory (he actually does look infuriatingly good, like he could put on a t-shirt that said “I woke up like this” and it would actually apply, but that’s not the point).

“Osamu,” she doesn’t bother troubling herself with his title. “We need to talk about your brother.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all, i swear to god i’m about to apologize for the same thing every time. i know i’ve gone almost three days now without posting and i’m so sorry for that. 
> 
> i just got a surgery done and it’s been a rough couple of days, but thank you so much for sticking with me. 
> 
> luv and appreciate you all cause you’re treasures ~ <3


	15. we need to talk about your brother - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I guess we’re even, then.”

"Are you Atsumu?" 

Kiko's office is made of glass - Atsumu assumes her soul looks quite the same. 

The bookshelves are sleek and hard-edged, the desk is dark mahogany, a three-sixty degree view of the world greets them beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. As picturesque and cold as Kiko is herself. There's no lingering warmth in her stare, which is why Atsumu's audible swallow feels so much louder among the silence that sits stagnant around them. 

In all his life, Atsumu has only ever experienced one situation more stressful than this one: the one and only time he'd ever had a crush on a man before he knew he was gay. 

There's nothing quite like the panic that ensues when you realize that holy shit your eighth-grade classmate is really fucking hot. And then: holy shit, guys aren't supposed to be hot because I'm a guy too. 

It's a horrible feeling akin to being burned alive from the inside out. Or that dropping of your stomach when you take the plunge off the edge of a cliff into unknown and unthinkable darkness below- but you know, both are equally bad. 

"And you need to tell me to truth or I can't help you," Atsumu fails to see how telling her the truth could help them in this situation. 

Ah yes, Kiko, me and my brother committed a delightful bout of treason. 

Either she agrees to keep their secret (best case scenario with a whopping zero percent chance of working out for them) and now there's one more person who could send him to jail. Or, more likely, she'll rat their lying asses out to the government and Kiyoomi will have to marry someone else and Atsumu will die in jail sending letters to his Ma. 

So, Atsumu does the only thing that offers them even a modicum of a chance of maybe not being social pariahs. 

(Orange is not a good color on Atsumu and he doesn't read, so that takes out like, ninety percent of prison entertainment. What else is supposed to give him joy in life when he's serving a life-sentence?) 

One thing Atsumu will always be thankful for is that he and Osamu seem to react exactly the same under pressure: with abject rage.

"What? What the fuck kinda question is that? 'Course I'm Osamu." 

Atsumu curses the nanosecond hesitation before 'Osamu' where he almost said 'Samu'. Old habits die hard - or more accurately, they don't die at all. 

There's a moment, a painful one where the air is not only unbreathable but is cutting at Atsumu's lungs like a thousand micro-blades. A million scenarios run foot races through his head, their footsteps imprinting burn marks into his psyche. 

And then there's a softening, the dropping of tension as Kiko's face seemingly relaxes, letting the uneasiness fall to the ground and shatter into dust. Atsumu doesn't hear her sigh, but if expressions could make noises, that would be it. 

Kiko's hard edge blurs just a little bit, Atsumu wouldn't say his unease is assuaged, but the pressure playing in his head like someone's crushing his skull in a hydraulic press is alleviated (if only somewhat). 

"I was hoping you would say that," Kiko says, Atsumu would love to believe her. But when someone holds a gun to your head only to promptly pull is way and apologize, distrust is only natural. 

"The only reason I ask is out of obligation. There's a theory going around that you and your brother switched places at your wedding." 

Atsumu thinks his head might actually explode, it certainly feels that way with all the blood rushing to his brain in an attempt so supply him with any way to get out of this. He could always jump out the window, get hit by a truck. You know, easy things that would take the spotlight away from this stupid (-ly true) conspiracy theory. 

Kiko withdraws a sleek laptop from the backpack sitting by her desk - a few clicks to her keyboard and she's flipping it around to face them. By the look on her face, you'd think they were staring at crime scene photos, but instead of the gruesome body bodies Atsumu was hoping for, he's met with a Wiki page outlining multiple theories as to exactly when and how the Miya twins swapped out during Osamu and Kiyoomi's wedding. 

There are external links and references, multiple possible timelines under multiple different headings - Atsumu would be impressed at how fleshed out it is considering the absolutely non-existent evidence they have to go on if he wasn't in a state of mental crisis. 

Kiyoomi beside his is cryptic as always, an unreadable mask plastered over his typical emotionless expression. If it wouldn't dismantle his pride in record time, Atsumu might reach out to the man for comfort. 

"Normally I'd dismiss them as crazy conspiracy theories, but the feasibility of this is concerning," Kiko supplies, a grave expression marring youthful features. In the month and a week-ish that Atsumu's known her, he gets the sense that she doesn't smile often, if at all. Yet another similarity between her and Kiyoomi. 

"If it was true, it would mean you've not only broken the law but it would also dismantle the already tenuous credibility of the Sakusa Royal Family." 

Atsumu would have the mind to feel selfish for not even considering the repercussions for Kiyoomi if this got out, but he's a bit preoccupied reading exactly what he and Osamu did in a fucking Wikipedia article. He would give anything for this to be a screwed up nightmare. 

He would also remark "How the fuck do people even come up with this shit?" if he hadn't been the OG in that department. 

"Between King Sakusa leaking news of his cancer and Kiyoomi's reaction to it, there's speculation that there's something below the surface going on," when she says it like that, Atsumu wouldn't trust them either. It's not like the royal family has been the gold standard they're supposed to be. From an outsider's point of view it must look like the family is falling apart at the seams. 

Then Kiko fixes them with a withering look and the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach makes its reprise with vigor. Atsumu can't pinpoint which negative emotion exactly is making him feel as though he's about to spontaneously combust if Kiko says another word, but if he had to hazard a guess, it would be something between fear and guilt.

"Let's hope that's not true." 

There's silence, the ticking of one of those modern clocks with small steel rectangles in place of actual numbers is the only sound that echoes off pristine surfaces.

Atsumu's nerves are live-wires, one touch and he'll explode like a fucking grenade. 

Kiyoomi doesn't look at him, doesn't even seem to acknowledge that he's there. At least that's what Atsumu is pretty sure is happening - not entirely unexpected. Kiyoomi is a cold-hearted bastard after all. Although he could be doing a better job of acting like a husband (Atsumu will reserve judgment in that respect though). 

But then there's a hand on his knee, squeezing with gentle pressure that sends shivers through his body. Atsumu's brain malfunctions where it sits in his skull, the neurons tangling together like earbud chords. All he can do is stare at the article in front of him, the small words blurring in to an amorphous blob. 

Atsumu doesn't risk looking at Kiyoomi, instead training his eyes on Kiko, their angel and savior, or possibly their devil disguised. 

"So what do we do about it?" Kiyoomi picks up the conversation where Atsumu seems stuck, trapped in the singular moment in time where his world feels as though it's crashing down on him. 

Everything is catching on fire, and he has no way to put it out. 

"Well, we could always ignore it, but our failure to address it could come off as confirmation," Kiko delves back into her usual self that doesn't make Atsumu feel like he's being pushed off the edge of a cliff. It would be a relief if he were capable of such an emotion. "So, if there are questions from the press - which there very well might be - we...will answer them."

Her sigh is drawn, as if this was a difficult decision to come by - how is one supposed respond to wild (-ly accurate) conspiracy theories quickly gaining a concerning amount of credibility? 

"These...ideas...about your marriage are taking over the internet," the laptop is flipped back around, clacking ensues at lightning speed - Atsumu never picked up the habit. "It's been dubbed 'The Marriage Trap' which is horribly uncreative, but what we have to work with at the moment." 

"We're going to get out ahead of this before it drags us with it," Kiko decides for them - Atsumu's heart sinks in his chest. 

He's reached the new level of his video game, a new boss to overthrow, new challenges to conquer. But all he carries with him is an old wooden shield and a rusty sword. 

Atsumu is in way over his head, unable to back out but drowning where he stands. 

The rest of their little "chat" goes positively horribly, Atsumu on edge at an almost constant rate, unwilling to admit to himself how he roots himself to the point of contact of Kiyoomi's hand on his knee. It's warm, and pretty much all he can focus on above the thrumming of his heart in his ears.

Kiko explains exactly what they are to say if confronted by the press about such accusations. Atsumu is going to have to cheat off Kiyoomi's notes because he can't hang onto a single word Kiko is saying, it's all just white noise, a bland background to his thoughts going haywire. 

Are me an' 'Samu goin' ta jail? Would they let us share a cell? Oh god, I couldn't share a cell with 'Samu- but then again we did share a room fer like...ever... But he'd still be a fuckin' menace- oh! Maybe we'd get one of those cushy high-class jail cells-

Who would Omi have to marry- wait, why do I care? I don't care. I don't care who Omi marries. I DON'T CARE- 

Oh fuck ana's gonna be so disappointed. This is why she shoulda just lemme do volleyball. Then none a this shit woulda happened. 

The hand on his knee remains throughout, a constant, the eye of the storm that rages on behind the calm facade of Atsumu's expression. 

When they stand to part ways, the hand leaves and cold seeps in to fill its place - the sensation is unpleasant, something akin to abandonment, but Atsumu decides to disregard the thought. He refuses to think he relies on Kiyoomi in any context. If Kiyoomi wants to divorce him, he wants to divorce Kiyoomi. Even playing field, the best kind.

They leave and Kiko stares at him as though she knows far more than she said in words. Atsumu would absolutely love to attribute that to the arch of her eyebrows or the almost perfectly flat line of her lips, but in his stomach he feels the tingling. 

He was never one for biology so he wouldn't know, but maybe it's a preeminent warning system. Atsumu isn't willing to risk it. So he swallows and makes sure he's the first one out the door, leaving behind the prospect of confrontation but carrying with him a deep rooted fear.

\---

Everything feels louder when you're heart is beating at an unnaturally fast pace and you're brain can think of nothing else other than: ya failed yer brother ya fuckin' screwup. 

The slam of their bedroom door sounds like an explosion, even Kiyoomi's background noises, shushing him to be quite feel grating on the ears. Atsumu's body doesn't know where to position itself in space. His hands fly to his hair, tug, down to the hem of his shirt, fiddle, and then back again. Rinse and repeat. A constant nervous loop he's stuck in. 

Atsumu likes competitive pressure, but the only person he seems to be trying to take down is himself at the moment. Under real pressure, he cracks like a China vase - fractured as it is abrupt. 

He wants to talk, to vent, to say anything, but the words are caught on a hitch in his breath, so all that ends up coming out is a gasped,

"What the fuck was that?" 

"What the fuck was what?"

Kiyoomi isn't hyperventilating himself to near unconsciousness nearly half as intensely as Atsumu seems to be. Although he supposes that's to be expected considering he could easily claim he had no idea this was going on in the first place. 

"They're identical twins. I'd only met them a few weeks beforehand...I feel...cheated," Atsumu feels preemptively betrayed - Kiyoomi will rat him out without a second thought. He's almost sure of it. 

"The knee thing. The fuck was that about?" Atsumu roots himself to the present with an accusation - so much easier than trying to sort through the mess that is his thought. For now, he will deal with them as he dealt with the mess in his room as a child: shove it all in the closet and hope no one goes looking. 

"You were freaking out-" 

"I wasn't."

"And you still are," Atsumu feels attacked. On top of this shit storm that started on Tumblr of all fucking places - he should've known, nothing good ever comes out of that hell-site - he now has to deal with his stupid fucking "husband". He's not going to cry, but he's pretty fucking close. 

"Well maybe I gotta fucking right ta be freaked out!" His words are whips - Atsumu loses all control over his speech when he's slowly breaking down into his basic parts: a bit of human disaster, and a dash of unbridled rage. "'Cause I'm gonna go ta fuckin' jail, Kiyoomi! An' so is my brother! I was s'posed ta help him! I was s'posed ta be there fer him an' be a good brother fer once in my life an' I couldn't even do that!" 

"An' all that's gonna happen ta you is that yer gonna have ya marry another hot rich guy!" Don't worry about bein' hurtful, his passive-aggressive-ass psyche goads. He doesn't like ya anyway. 

"Boo fuckin' hoo! Yer not freakin' out right now 'cause yer life is still gonna be fuckin' perfect after this! Mine is fallin' apart!" 

He doesn't even notice he's crying until the world is blurring and he's sucking in wet breaths that supply him with less and less air with every successive attempt. His chest hurts from the exertion of pushing out steady words through the urge to sob - this is what clouds must feel like, having to juggle lightning and thunder and rain all at once. 

Kiyoomi regards him with a cold but gentle expression, soft like fresh fallen snow, but not to be touched for fear of being bitten by the chill. 

And then he's moving toward Atsumu, his figure merely blobs of color even as he moves closer. 

"You need to calm down," is what he says, so softly that Atsumu barely hears it over the drumming of his heart in his ears - like a flood, the noise intends to drown, leaving no survivors. 

Warm hands find his, familiar fingers tighten around the back of his knuckles, thumbs press to his palms as if holding him in place. The thumbs start their movement in slow circles that are shallow imitations of a massage, gradually digging deeper to match Atsumu's pulse. He feels held, whatever that feeling is. 

It's an unexplained phenomenon of science, how such a simple action manages to even out unstable breaths and an erratic heartbeat, like managing to tame a lion with a pat on the head. 

Atsumu swallows thickly, a his throat a horrible combination of desert-dry and sticky with saliva as if his body intends to rob him of all hydration. Avoiding Kiyoomi's gaze at all uncomfortable costs, he pitches his eyes to a point beyond the man's shoulder. The doorknob of their bedroom door serves as the new center of his universe. 

"Breathe in for three seconds." 

Atsumu obeys, a mindless slave as he roots himself to where Kiyoomi presses gentle thumbs to his palms. 

"One...Two...Three." 

His fingers curl around Kiyoomi's thumb, a five-year-old clutching their friend's hand when the rain starts pouring. 

"Breathe out." 

He does, shakily so, hardly counting as a functioning breathing pattern. It's laden with coughs and hiccups, the aftershocks of a chaotic storm. Even as he holds Kiyoomi's hands in a death grip, he feels unstable, like the ground may come apart under him if he ventures too far from the safety of his husband’s presence. 

Atsumu allows himself the moment of being husbands. Not "husbands". Just this moment.

"See? Breathing isn't that hard when you do it right," they sit down on the bed in sync - more of a flop than anything else - and Atsumu lacks the energy to make a snide comment or formulate a witty comeback. 

He lets his head fall to Kiyoomi's shoulder, their hands still joined even though their wrists are forced at an awkward angle - Atsumu doesn't mind. He's spent entire nights laying awake because Osamu threw a leg over his and cut off his circulation. This discomfort is a small price to pay for the momentary stability.

Then the silence is stinging as it thrusts him back into the claws of his own mind. 

'Yer not freakin' out right now 'cause yer life is still gonna be fuckin' perfect after this.'

Guilt strikes him like a sword to the rib cage, his words echoing back at him, a delayed ricochet effect.

Dizzily, he searches the cavities of his mind for a suitable apology, rushing to get it out and faltered when they all flood out at once, smashing into one another and leaving themselves unfinished. 

"Omi- I-m sorry- I didn't mean- About yer life that's not what I-" 

"I know."

Atsumu searches the silence for any hint that he's lying, analyses every peak and valley of his voice for dishonesty. 

He finds nothing, his brain instead choosing to distract itself by focusing on the uncomfortable angle of his elbow. He wants to move, but not farther, closer. As close as he can. Just for this moment, he tells himself.

So Atsumu lets go of Kiyoomi's hands in favor of tangling them around his neck to facilitate his transition onto Kiyoomi's lap. Gently, Atsumu straddles him, tucking his face into the crook of his husband's neck. And he melts, literally and figuratively, letting the dopamine rush escape unhindered by self-imposed rules.

There's hesitance to Kiyoomi's movements, his arms hand limply in the air, only barely draping around Atsumu's waist, as if he's not sure quite how to move his body. Atsumu doesn't blame him. They're not like this. They're not soft and caring about each other. They're not husbands. But right now they are. 

"Will this get you to stop crying?" There's no bite behind his words, and Atsumu feels how raw they are, devoid of any shielding or preemptive filtering. It's an actual question - how can I help you? 

"Yes." 

So a hand presses between his shoulder blades, gentle. And an arm wraps around his waist to draw them closer - he indulges in the freedom, the ability to wrap his legs around Kiyoomi's waist without consequence, to explore this new-found hiding spot against warm skin. Kiyoomi smells like vanilla and lavender, a man built from the day dreams of a true romantic's soft soul. 

Perfectly crafted, delicately drawn, is how Atsumu might describe this moment if he was a poet. Like a perfect sketch, beautiful in its mess. 

"Thank you," he says because he knows that tomorrow this will not have happened, that they will be back to being "husbands" and the world will resume its sluggish spin, time its crawling forward march. 

"I guess this makes us even, then."

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi luvs, thank you so much for all your support and lovely comments, it seriously helped 💖 you are appreciated !! 
> 
> in other news, the post-surgery swelling in my face has decreased to (finally) a manageable amount. so, hopefully, i’ll be able to get back to a more regular posting schedule pretty soon! ☺️
> 
> also, i’m so sorry i couldn’t post on christmas, but i hope your winter holidays (whichever ones you celebrate) were filled with happiness and coziness! 💖⭐️


	16. it’s not a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yeah sure Omi. Two people who're romantically involved goin' out fer coffee is obviously not a date.”

"Why are you so excited about this? You were freaking out three days ago," Atsumu skips, literally skips, beside him. Swinging his arms and bouncing alongside his husband- "husband". Kiyoomi fiddles with his palm because he needs something to do and he'd rather get to work on digging his own grave than give Atsumu the satisfaction of reaching for his hand.

"Because after this we're goin' on our first date! An' that means I getta show ya all the reasons y'should fall head over heels fer me," Kiyoomi side-eyes him, folding his lips together in an attempt to sort through which part of that statement he should pick apart first.

So many options.

"It's not a date," he decides on first. They're just getting coffee - something they haven't been allowed to do since the wedding considering it was honeymoon to press scandal to interview to conspiracy theory- really it's been chaotic. And being a royal means you give up normal person things. Like dates. And privacy.

Not to mention that that's not even happening until after Atsumu finishes his interview with this talk show host Kiyoomi's forgotten the name of. So Atsumu still has to go through hell before they even go on their not-date. Which means he has no reason to be excited - it's making Kiyoomi angry.

Because when Atsumu's excited, he bounces and blushes and smiles all cute and pretty, which is basically like setting fire to Kiyoomi's self-control - why not just fucking burn it to the ground? Atsumu's already doing that with his entire life. Kiyoomi's father always did tell him never to leave a job unfinished.

"Omi, it is a date, an' ya tryina say otherwise isn't gonna change that fact," Atsumu grabs his hand then, and Kiyoomi thinks he might fall apart like a broken doll from the sudden touch. What the fuck is this? Casual handholding? Have they even begun to explore that level yet? "Aren'tcha at least a little excited? We haven't been on an actual date ever an' we're literally married!"

"I'm never excited to go anywhere with you," a tripped over lie, and badly delivered too. "You're a horrible person and I can't wait to be rid of you."

"Mmm, well, ya say that but yer also lettin' me hold yer hand an' ya let me snuggle ya so..." if Kiyoomi had known Atsumu was capable of making structured and well-evidenced arguments, Kiyoomi would've returned him when he still had the receipt. "Y'can call me horrible all ya want. But really ya think I'm nice, or at least pleasant."

Not true, in fact. Kiyoomi doesn't find Atsumu pleasant in the slightest. In truth he finds Atsumu frustrating and annoying and infuriating and the perfect shape for holding late at night with hands that slot with his like puzzle pieces.

Which makes his rage more potent. He wants to say he hates Atsumu, but there's a soft mushy tender feeling welling in his chest at the friction of calluses against his palms and hate is an abstract prospect, an idea to be mulled over later.

In his panic over the all-consuming not-hate he's experiencing, he forgets to pull his hand away in retaliation. Even as they enter through the back door of the studio at which Atsumu's about to be interviewed, shedding their bodyguards at the door, Kiyoomi keeps his fingers curled right around a constant source of warmth even in the summer heat.

Cold air hits him in the face like a truck - Atsumu is otherwise unaffected, pulling him along by their tangible link as an assistant (with an assistant of her own) greets them at the front door.

Clipboard in hand, headset in place, a woman with platinum blond hair smiles at them jovially, lips stretching despite the shallowness of her purely cursory gesture.

"Hello! Prince Osamu, Prince Kiyoomi, it's an honor to make your acquaintance," she extends her free hand and Atsumu takes the bullet for him, keeping his and Kiyoomi's hands tethered at their sides. Kiyoomi wouldn't have an explanation for anyone who asked, but there's something comforting about their connection, a safety net for him to fall back on.

The pressure of meeting people and public speaking is immense, but Atsumu is...there for him in the most simple way. A wordless gesture that Kiyoomi begs the universe to display in a language he can read.

Maybe then there'd be instructions on how to make it stop.

"My name is Giana," her smile is fake, and before a millisecond has the chance to pass, it's down to business, niceties be damned. "So, we have a lot to do and like, fifteen minutes to do it. We have to get Prince Osamu get up with makeup and a mic, so Prince Kiyoomi, if you wouldn't mind letting your husband go for just a few minutes, I promise we'll return him."

There's a fond lilt to her voice, as if seeing them together triggers primal happiness. Hearing them referred to as husbands - genuinely, legitimately, without a hint of doubt - makes his sternum tickle, his breath stop coming out evenly.

He ignores the tickle, forced himself to breathe, and for the present moment, manages to convince himself that this - everything - is perfectly fine.

When they finally part, Kiyoomi catches the cheeky smile Atsumu throws over his shoulder. It's as though Kiyoomi is a book lying open for him to read.

Ya like me, a voice he could pick out of a line up taunts as Atsumu disappears around the corner. Maybe ya more than like me.

Kiyoomi flops down on the waiting room couch - red velvet, plush and soft - grabbing one of the glasses of water they'd set out as a courtesy and chugging the whole thing in one go. Maybe if he can drown out Atsumu's voice ricocheting around his brain, he'll be able to process these things as disgusting as feelings with clarity.

Kiyoomi's effort is futile, his haphazardly thrown-together theory disproven.

Instead, with the washing away of Atsumu's voice comes the ache of his absence - all Kiyoomi's brain can seem to formulate as an answer is, well fuck, this is new.

He feels fucking stupid. As you should, something in him chides without permission.

One, Kiyoomi doesn't miss people. That's a stupid emotion because unless you're never going to see them again, there's no reason to miss them. It's pointless heartache.

Two, you can't miss someone who's not even gone, especially when they're probably less than a hundred feet away and you're about to see them on a wall-mounted TV anyway.

Three, this is fucking Atsumu Miya and he's annoying one hundred percent of the time and most of the time, he makes Kiyoomi want to fucking scream, and-

And yet it burns, his body demanding rather than requesting the warmth of Atsumu's presence beside him - what kind of mushy gushy blobby amorphous slush has Kiyoomi become? He's a mess of romantic day dreams and stupid sweet nothings. Gross. Disgusting.

In this moment of crisis, two questions ring loud in his mind like alarms.

What is he supposed to do with this feeling and how does he burn it?

The TV crackles to life and Kiyoomi is momentarily robbed of space to think with peace and quiet surrounding him.

Atsumu appears on screen, sitting across from the talk show host, a man Kiyoomi doesn't quite remember the name of (he knows okay, he's horrible at his job). It's his job to remember names and faces, put two and two together. And yet his eyes are glued to his husban- "husband" - that's two times he's fucked up now. He's needs to get a grip before his walls disintegrate any further than they already have.

He decides that, for the moment, and for this moment only, he'll focus on this train wreck interview full of bullshit questions. All interviews are bullshit. Most accomplish nothing. Kiyoomi's learned this through many years of endless frustration.

"So, what do you say to the people who think that you are, in fact, your brother?" Is of course the first question. You don't just become the subject of a wildly popular conspiracy theory and not get asked about it.

The talk show host is covering his mouth to hide a laugh, Atsumu reciprocates with a smile that would look real to an unsuspecting audience member, but Kiyoomi can tell is fake by the way it fails to infect his eyes.

"Well," Atsumu formulates the perfect response on the spot as he always does somehow. Even through the TV screen, his eminence exudes. "I would tell them that I wish my were that interestin'. But, beyond that, I just gotta let y'all know that the royal family ain't half as interestin' as people'd like ta think."

Atsumu laughs at that. The host laughs at that. Everyone laughs at that because Atsumu's presence is infectiously radiant.

"Well, well, now. That's not exactly true is it? I mean, you do have that interview with President Morozov coming up, right? That's at least gotta qualify in the above-boring category."

Atsumu's smile is pained, Kiyoomi has to give him credit for withstanding the pressure. If the places were switched he'd be out the door by now. Really, no one has any idea just how interesting their inter-personal live really are.

"Oh yeah, that," Atsumu hisses out through gridded teeth.

"Yeah, that. How're you feeling about that?"

"Yeah yeah... Well, no. I think it'll be good. It'll be good," Atsumu repeats, trying to convince himself as much as the audience. He rubs his palms together, crimping callused fingers over flushed knuckles - a nervous tick, Kiyoomi knows by now.

A stiff laugh erupts from his "husband" when the host says,

"That sounds like the...not-actually-so-nice voice."

"Nah nah, I'm sure President Morozov will be professional. I'm not worried about it," Atsumu's smile deserves an auction of exponential growth. The highest bidder better offer the entire world.

Yeah of course he's not fucking worried about it because of that stupid goddamn bet, Kiyoomi bites his own tongue, halting unvocalized words before they have a change to be made real.

A bet he's winning, his subconscious chides, the devil on his shoulder.

He's not winning.

Come on we both know he is. You're just angry that you can't admit it.

Kiyoomi shakes his head to evaporate criminal thoughts.

If his traitorous brain would stop being a dirty rat for the enemy side, maybe he could live in peace. But now it's two to one, his inner-subconscious and Atsumu versus Kiyoomi. The odds are hardly in his favor. He's never been one to back down from a challenge though. Plus, the underdog is always everyone's favorite, right?

Kiyoomi stomps to the water cooler in the corner of the room upon realizing his glass is empty, sucked of its contents in aid of a futile (at best) effort. To keep Kiyoomi's racing mind under control even though it is a beast incapable of taming.

Kiyoomi stares at the bottom of his crystal glass, watching the way the water distorts all below it, clutches the cup so hard he would break it if he applied only an ounce more of pressure.

He's not winning. I'm better than this.

He is winning because you're a weakling and he smells really good.

Yeah well, his - what? three? - good qualities hardly outweigh all his bad ones. He's annoying, incessantly naggy, relentlessly bothersome even when it's at an inconvenience to himself, loud-

Adorably hot, really good at cuddles, he holds your hand when you're upset, does fun stuff with you. You like the way he talks and his smile is really pretty. Oh Kiyoomi, you're so fucking w-

I swear to god if you say whipped I will punch you in the face.

I'm you Kiyoomi, you'd be punching yourself. Have fun explaining that to the psych ward.

Fuck me, I'm having an inner-dialogue with myself.

Another drawn-out sip, another failed attempt at clarity. He's drowning, he's sure of it. Atsumu's not even in the room and he feels like he's going to implode from the ever-present nagging of his own thoughts.

And he's not falling in love because falling in love is a good thing, and anything that feels like it's giving him acid reflux cannot possibly be good. He's not even falling in like. He refuses to.

He's better than this.

\---

Kiyoomi stands there staring at the water in his hand for half an hour before the enigma of a man he's married to returns with a deflated sigh.

It's an uncharacteristic gesture done incredibly in-character - in other words, with all the childish petulance of a five-year-old who doesn't like being dragged to the grocery store on a Saturday.

Atsumu hangs on him the moment he's back, escorted by the blond woman who wears a plastic smile. Strong arms wrap around his neck from behind, elbows curling over Kiyoomi's shoulder as a face nestles under his jawline.

A low growl thrums in Kiyoomi's chest, but he lets his "husband" hang there - for the assistant, he tells himself - a warm blanket of a person with the personality of one. And not because it makes a tender affection bloom like a lily in his chest. Because he got very little sleep last night and he doesn’t have the energy to push Atsumu off (he justifies this singular allowance as merely another one-off to add to his collection).

"Omi, Love, I'm tired," love? Kiyoomi's brain momentarily breaks at the word, as if the single syllable on his tongue is a reflection of his deepest darkest thoughts that he'd shoved down into the most tightly-locked crevices of his soul.

Rational reasoning tells him that this is Atsumu's way of acting, showing off for what's left of the public looking in on what should be their private life. The affection, the pet name. It's all fake, Kiyoomi's sure of it, he convinces himself that it is.

"Can we go on our date now?"

The door to the waiting room closes and Kiyoomi shrugs his "husband" off with far too much hesitance on his own part - half of himself, the half that refuses to bend to his will, mourns the loss of warmth, the absence of arms holding him.

"It's not a date," Kiyoomi needs fresh air, just needs to get away from this man and his overwhelming presence. Atsumu's mere aura is crushing. His warmth and radiance are suffocating. Kiyoomi needs out, just for a second, just to gather his thoughts that lay shattered on the floor of his mind.

"Yeah sure Omi. Two people who're romantically involved goin' out fer coffee is obviously not a date," Atsumu rolls his eyes, grabbing for Kiyoomi’s hand again as they exit the studio. through the back door of the waiting room. "My mistake."

They walk to the car, escorted by burly bodyguards like chess pieces, Knights guarding the King and Queen - seems a bit heteronormative to Kiyoomi, but there was a time when it was naturally assumed that everyone in the entire world was straight.

"We're not romantically involved," he feels the need to correct even though it's not true in the slightest.

Everything about Atsumu is romantic. From the slope of full lips to the muscle of corded thighs beneath evenly tanned skin, Atsumu is a being coded in Renaissance poetry.

Then Atsumu stops, just short of the car and looks at him, looks him dead in ink-black eyes and says,

"Yeah but we could be."

And Kiyoomi stops fully functioning, the world stops rotating correctly, halting on its axis.

How is he supposed to react to such a genuine proposition? Genuine is worse than a lie because you can ignore a lie, dismiss it as bullshit, but the truth, the unabashed, plain-spoken truth is something that demands response.

And Kiyoomi doesn’t have one.

Kiyoomi never gets to give his not-response as they're shuffled into sleek black cars mere seconds after Atsumu's world-bending proposition - at least, it bends Kiyoomi's world, like a twisty straw at a kids restaurant. Folds it in on itself and crimps it into origami.

For once, he's grateful for being cut off before thoughts no one should ever be privy to are able to spill off his tongue. The words die on his lips, but the but the feeling remains, the shattered dazedness that jams any functioning thought processes and discontinues his ability to think like a normal human being.

You don't like him, Atsumu is a fucking idiot, is what Kiyoomi tells himself in as stern and commanding a voice as he can muster.

And then he proceeds to spend an entire car ride watching his "husband" fail the same level of Candy Crush over and over again.

Even worse: he doesn't even feel it was wasted.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey luvs! i hope y’all are doing well. i’m trying to get back on a more regular schedule though it might be a little different since my free time is disappearing into the ether~😭
> 
> anyway, this was originally going to be one chapter, but I decided to split it into two because it was getting a little long. thanks for all the support! 💖
> 
> p.s.  
> sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes in this chapter or the last few! i’ve been writing all these on my phone~!


	17. wouldja take it all back?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eh, guess it's all hypothetical anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry for any spelling errors! i wrote this on my phone and was super rushed cause i’m on a time limit. but i hope you enjoyed !! 
> 
> i wanted to post on new years but i didn’t quite get to it! still though, i hope your new year’s eve was lovely!! thanks for your continued support and lovely comments, i hold them close to chest to warm my heart made of ice ☺️💗

It been literal years since Kiyoomi's been to a coffee shop, he forgets how exactly one is supposed to hold themselves when walking into a place full of civilians.

Do normal people who know how to interact with other normal people stand up perfectly straight? Is it normal for people to stare at you when you walk into a coffee shop? How do you order food again?

Kiyoomi breathes in the scent of coffee and social anxiety, a potent blend. Even before being shut away in his ivory tower so he could learn to become 'a real prince', Kiyoomi's had the slightest touch of social anxiety.

When he was a kid it was...less slight, often resulting in him curled up on a bathroom floor or hidden away in a closet somewhere, but multiple therapists over the coarse of five years and three psyche consultations to improve his 'social image' have tamped such feelings down a bit. If it were up to him, he'd still avoid people like the plague. But it's not up to him, so he makes do with what he has.

It's unclear whether Atsumu registers the pinched expression in Kiyoomi's face as anxiety or whether he just wants to hold someone's hand, but callused fingers tangle with Kiyoomi's nonetheless.

It's weird, pretending to be in love, the standard, and every day feeling like you're one step closer to meeting that bar. It's frightening is what it is, utterly terrifying. Because what happens if Kiyoomi does, hypothetically (because under non circumstances will he deign to consider it a legitimate possibility), fall in love? Then what? He's subjected to this disgusting domesticity for the rest of his waking days? Gross.

Kiyoomi would rather sell his soul to the devil. Maybe he already has.

"Mmm, is my Omi nervous?" As always, Atsumu is annoyingly perceptive to the point where it kind of makes Kiyoomi want to punch him (or kiss him, though that remains to be seen). But Kiyoomi can't even muster the will to be mad at the jest because he's not Omi anymore. He's my Omi.

Kiyoomi's never been anyone's anything before.

What are the implications of being someone's? Does he want to be Atsumu's? But more pertinently, does he not want to? He doesn't not want to, right? Or is he maybe losing his tightly held grip on his sanity just a little bit?

The chance to respond is stolen from him as Atsumu takes the lead, plunging them head-first into the crowded coffee shop with a confidence that Kiyoomi wouldn't even imagind having in his wildest nightmares.

"What d'ya want?" Kiyoomi crinkles his eyebrows in confusion, his brain split three ways between wanting Atsumu to further elaborate on what he's asking, wanting to know why he thinks Kiyoomi qualifies as "his", and still being stuck on the hand-holding thing.

No one fucking built a roadmap for this? So how is he to be expected to navigate it?

"What?"

"Or y'can order yerself, but ya froze in the doorway an' walkin' in's the easy part."

The consideration voiced feels like a punch to the gut. Kiyoomi forgets most days how sweet Atsumu can be when he decides it's worth the effort. It's like there's a switch in himself that he flips that allows him to be Kiyoomi's night in shining armor when Kiyoomi feels his world on the brink of collapse.

It's stupid. Atsumu needs to stop it right now.

"I can order coffee without assistance, thanks," he forces the edge in his voice, but conveniently he ignores such a prospect. It's troubling and requires a lot of thinking that Kiyoomi doesn't have the energy for. He's a fundamentally lazy person, a procrastinator of the highest order. It can be saved for later.

"But do ya want ta?"

Kiyoomi falters just a little bit, forcibly holding back the choke that wants to fall from his lips.

He doesn't have to answer for Atsumu to know, and he doesn't like that fact. Doesn't like that Atsumu can read him like an open book or that he knows how to choose the exact words that will calm him down, sort out his problems fro him. No one can do that. No one but Atsumu.

When Kiyoomi doesn't answer, Atsumu takes it as confirmation - he hates that the Miya prince is right.

"That's what I thought. So waddaya want?"

"Black coffee."

"So predictable Omi. Coffee as dark as yer pretty black eyes," again with the mild sort-of flirting that's not so mild and is definitely flirting. Kiyoomi's heart stutters in his chest, painfully so. "Andjer soul." Ah, there it is, the normalcy that leaves Kiyoomi's fidgety soul sated.

"Better than the obnoxious neon yellow that yours is," Kiyoomi scoffs, nudging at his "husband's" elbow with his own.

"'Scuse you, mine is shimmery shiny gold thank ya very much."

So in the end, despite Kiyoomi swearing up and down that he doesn't need Atsumu's help, Atsumu orders for him, and he sits in the corner near the window and tries not to gather attention.

Despite his efforts to be inconspicuous - hunching over, drawing his black hoodie tighter around himself and hoping he doesn't look like a criminal - people keep approaching him, asking for pictures or autographs. Thus Kiyoomi keeps supplying them with some benign excuse that he blames on his publicist. And then they stop coming up to him altogether when Gorgio, their newest recruit to their army of bodyguards, sends a hooded glare from behind the windshield of the car.

Kiyoomi's never seen the point of bodyguards (if someone wanted to kill him, having Gorgio sitting outside in a car watching him die wouldn't do much good, now would it?), but they've always been a necessary evil.

By the time Atsumu bounces over to their table, two paper coffee cups in hand, Kiyoomi has retreated almost fully into himself. His hands bury themselves in his sweatshirt even though it's a temperate seventy degrees out side, his brows scrunch together with discomfort, everything about him must scream social recluse.

Kiyoomi knows he's in stark contrast from his "husband". Atsumu is a presence unrivaled by the sun itself. His light, charisma, they bleed out into the air surrounding him, fracture through his smile and his voice. He is an exothermic reaction, warming all around him like the light of a fire. Kiyoomi is the opposite.

This is why people love him and hate Kiyoomi. This is why they work, not that they should by any rational reasoning. Science proves beyond a reasonable doubt that people are attracted to people who think like they do, who are like they are. But then again, Atsumu proves that reasonable doubt is bullshit.

"Are ya sufferin'? I mean damn Omi, ya look like ya've never been in public before," always one for honesty, Atsumu holds back no criticism. "Yer freakin' people out just relax a little. Have ya never been on a date before?"

The question is me meant in all innocence, but Kiyoomi feels embarrassment burn shallow beneath the surface of his skin, singing at his cheeks and overheating him in the warmth of summer.

To be frank, no, Kiyoomi Sakusa has not once been on a date. Yes, in his entire life.

He's considered the idea, but just the mere prospect of going through the arduous process of trying to find someone in this hellish world who he actually likes was enough of a deterrent - he's fundamentally lazy, remember? It just always seemed unnecessary and beyond that, fruitless. The few meager attempts he'd made in the past at romance had ended before they were even given the chance to begin.

Atsumu has clearly not had the same experience. Just another thing that seems to aid their opposite-ness.

"I haven't had time because I have an actual job, in case you haven't noticed."

"Really? 'Cause I fer one thoughtcha just sat around all day on Tinder," Atsumu snarks, taking a sip of his drink that, if Kiyoomi had to hazard a guess, is most likely horribly over-sweetened and borderline inedible. Just like Atsumu himself. "There's no needa be snippy Darlin', was just askin' an honest question."

Darling, it strikes a chord in his chest, plucking at his heart strings. No one has ever called him such sweet words before. Even with his mother it was always 'Son' at the very most, most of the time 'Kiyoomi'. But with Atsumu...

First 'Love', now 'Darling', what's next? Sweetheart? He's suffocating in syrupy sweetness of his "husband".

"I mean, if ya think about it, I'm yer first everythin', right? Yer first kiss when we got married, yer first husband, yer first date," a small smile tugs on full lips - Kiyoomi is left only to wonder breathlessly if Atsumu takes pride in that fact.

"Why do you care if you are?"

Atsumu shrugs, the smile deepens to show the pearly white of teeth biting at a soft bottom lip.

"I dunno, s'just romantic is all."

Kiyoomi grimaces at that, the idea of him and Atsumu being...romantic. If asked, Kiyoomi will deny that they're even romantically involved, but being confronted with the idea of it makes a feather tickle at the inside of his chest. He wants to kiss and touch and hold and indulge in all these firsts with Atsumu. But he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to want to. At war with himself, he plays a game of tug of war with the prospect.

"And why do you care if it's romantic?" Kiyoomi doesn't mean to sound bitter, but he feels it, burning a hole in his stomach.

Atsumu is the kind of person that has people tripping over him. He's the kind of person who could have anyone. Why bother with romance and courtship? It makes no sense, unless he enjoys the game, the tease, which Kiyoomi guesses would make perfect sense.

"What's that s'posed ta mean?"

"Well I don't know for sure, but I'm willling to hazard a guess. You were a fuckboy in high school, weren't you?"

Atsumu looks borderline offended, at least ready to be, but doesn't say anything, instead holding a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

"What a cruel assumption, Omi. An' from my own husband too, what a shame," okay, Kiyoomi's making the executive decision that people need to stop genuinely referring to them as husbands because it's fucking with him on another level.

"Well, am I right?"

"Okay sure, maybe, but just 'cause y'were right doesn't mean ya know me," a classic excuse to avoid the simple truth that, yes, by now, Kiyoomi does know him. Hazel eyes trail off somewhere beyond Kiyoomi, out the window toward the street. He says almost wistfully, "I was different in high school."

"How different?" Kiyoomi couldn't help the curiosity seeping into his voice if he tried (and he did).

"I played volleyball," Atsumu shrugs like Kiyoomi's perception of his macho fitness-obsessed "husband" hadn't been flipped on its head. So there's actually a reason behind him being jacked? That's totally fucked, Kiyoomi can't stand up against that.

"You played volleyball?" Kiyoomi repeats dumbly.

"Yeah, an' I got good too. Even got offered a contract to play on a professional team an' all that shit," Atsumu purses his lips with distaste, a signal that Kiyoomi is missing a crucial part of this story. People don't just talk about what should be one of the greatest moments of their life like it's one of the worst.

"And?"

"An' I turned it down. Obviously."

Kiyoomi bites his lip to hold in his very obvious confusion - Atsumu Miya who hates being a prince and hates the idea of being king and hates betting a royal in general turning down maybe one of the only chances he has to get out? Why? It doesn't add up.

Kiyoomi wants to pry, but he waits like the patient man he is for Atsumu to explain of his own accord.

"Ma made me. Sounds stupid but 'pperently I got responsibilities- or, I had responsibilities," Atsumu must decipher the confusion written on his "husband's" face because he says with all the somberness of a man with no soul, "Yeah, I was confused too. I'm the screw-up twin. 'Samu was always the one destined ta be king anyway. If they're so convinced my leavin' was a mistake then why not lemme do it an' fuck up my own life, right?"

A knot builds at the base of Kiyoomi's throat, one formed of sympathy and hand-me-down sadness that he fails to swallow.

And it makes him think. About how he never had a dream beyond his job, about how everything in his life is for his parents. About what the fuck does he actually want to do with his life? Does he want to be a king? Has he ever once thought of escaping it all?

The answer is a plain and simple no. Why? Because it was never a possibility.

"We're not that differentcha know, Kiyoomi," Kiyoomi's full name makes an appearance falling off of Atsumu's lips, and it leaves him breathless, just fro a second. A millisecond in firm that he feels weak in the knees and his world falling to ashes around him.

"Really? And why do you think that?" Kiyoomi rasps out through a sandpaper throat, just barely, still scratched up from the effort.

"We're both trapped, I guess. Ya had ta marry me, I had ya give up volleyball. We were adults. We can say no but we don't 'cause there's that sense of obligation. An' ya don't know where it comes from. Cause this is yer life andja should live it however ya want, butcha give up on yer dreams fer whatever fuckin' reason because of it."

And then it hits Kiyoomi like a punch to the stomach. Atsumu feels trapped by him, by his family, by his life. If anything has ever hurt more physically, Kiyoomi has yet to find it. He thinks he might throw up.

He wouldn't be able to explain it to you if you asked, but there's something about holding in the palm of your hands, being, the reason for someone else's hurting that feels like a knife wound to the gut. Even if it is Atsumu.

Maybe because it's Atsumu.

"Wouldja take it all back?"

The question is sudden. Kiyoomi should've seen it coming but instead he was too worried about being the problem that he nearly missed it. He hasn't touched his coffee yet, it feels wasteful, but he expects he won't.

"If ya could, I mean? Knowing whatcha know now. Wouldja tell yer parents no, ta marryin' me?"

A pause. A moment to consider even though his answer was already painfully apparent from the very beginning.

No. Knowing what he knows now. He would say yes with a smile.

So he takes another moment to reconsider, just to see if his answer will change even though Einstein once said that stupidity was trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Kiyoomi resigns to be stupid.

"I don't know," he says instead of what he means. No, I still want you, he doesn't say, refuses to think.

And then a fall, a drop back to normalcy comes as jarring as it is appreciated.

"Eh, guess it's all hypothetical anyway."

\---


	18. someone could love me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Someone could love me, y'know. I'm not unloveable, am I?"

Kiyoomi's been drunk three times in his life before and in not one of those has it been a good idea.

This time is no exception.

Atsumu is on house arrest, sort of. Kiko's exact words had been "laying low" but both of them know that's code for "you guys fucked this up" - after the first interview, Kiko makes the executive decision for them that Atsumu can't be trusted to handle conspiracy theories with grace (apparently, he made too many jokes).

Kiyoomi's used to it by now, if he's being honest. He's been subject to Kiko's unique form of punishment his entire life. Apparently, Atsumu's never had the pleasure.

"Omi, what am I s'posed ta do when I'm not allowed ta do anythin'?" Atsumu likes to complain, Kiyoomi's noticed. The Miya prince flops down on one of many living room couches - as a child, Kiyoomi used to get freaked out by the sheer number of repeat rooms in the royal palace. (Who needs more than one kitchen?) Since then it's been dulled into vague annoyance.

"Okay, first, you're not in actual jail, Kiko just doesn't want you flashing your ugly face to every camera in the city," Kiyoomi huffs, eyes doing their best to find the flaws in Atsumu's face he supposedly is supposed to see and coming up empty. "Second, you're living in a palace with nine hundred thousand square feet of space to do anything in. You're not suffering, stop being a brat."

Kiyoomi flops on the couch beside his "husband", blowing out a sigh as he stares at his reflection the shimmery black pool of a dead TV. It feels strange, having free time, being completely alone with Atsumu. It feels strange because it feels normal. This disgusting domesticity feels comfortable in all its boring glory.

Just sitting here with him should be awkward and uncomfortable and yet it isn't. Instead, Kiyoomi sits here and holds his head rigid where it wants to flop to Atsumu's shoulder, defying the natural course of events.

_C'mon you hardass, just do it. 'Tsumu does it all the time,_ Kiyoomi's subconscious goads, prodding him much in the way his "husband" seems to enjoy doing. _Just think about it. The rain is nice, and you're a little chilly, Atsumu would be warm-_

"Let's get wasted," is what Atsumu suggests after a beat of silence, breaking Kiyoomi's spiraling mind back to the present moment. He's thankful for the intrusion because, honestly, he would've done it. Atsumu is wearing on his will power like a preschooler repeatedly knocking over a tower of blocks - with reckless abandon and an intent to destroy.

"You can't be serious. It's literally noon."

"Omi, time is a human construct. Plus, we've got nothin' else ta do an' we're completely alone. So why not?" Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose at the suggestion. It's true they have an obscene amount of free time until Kiko deems it safe for Atsumu to come out of hiding, it's true that they're completely by themselves, it's true that time is a human construct.

None of those reasons are good arguments for getting shit-faced in the middle of the day.

"You'll have to try harder than that."

"Omi," Atsumu's whine is halfway between cute and annoying - though Kiyoomi supposes that's about where his entire personality falls. "Please! It's rainin' an' I'm not even allowed ta talk ta Alisa-"

"Talk to your brother. That's what siblings are for," - to be fair, Kiyoomi's never had them, so he wouldn't know, but his point still stands. It's not like Atsumu's completely alone in the world. The look on his "husband's" face is incredulous.

"Really? 'Samu? Yer gettin' lazy with yer avoidance tactics, Darlin'," _Darling,_ again. He has to stop that but Kiyoomi doesn't know how to make him- or rather, he's not brave enough. He could bring it to Atsumu's attention, but all that would really get him is a major uptick in the use of the pet name - Atsumu's a bitch like that. So really, it's more like he's not willing to run the risk.

"My point is that it's not like you have no one to talk to and nothing to do. You're literally talking to me right now," Kiyoomi rolls his eyes to emphasize his point.

"But I'm _bored,_ Omi," whining, again.

Kiyoomi wants to squish his cheeks just to shut him up. _Kissing him would have the same effect,_ Kiyoomi closes his eyes and represses the urge to bang his head against the glass coffee table in front of them, the only thin defense against his rebellious psyche. _I don't want to kiss him,_ he asserts to no one in particular.

_You do. His lips are probably really soft,_ his thoughts ping pong back and forth as Atsumu rambles on, his words completely missing Kiyoomi's ears and landing somewhere far off. _Yeah, because he uses an inhuman amount of chapstick -_ another solid argument from the thinking part his brain.

_Yeah, but it's strawberry. You like the taste of strawberries. You probably like the taste of him too-_

_Shut up._

"Rude," Atsumu is standing now, arms folded, expression twisted into a leer and- oh shit, he said that out loud. _How much of it?_ Kiyoomi belatedly wonders even though it won't make a difference. He's still going crazy, and it's all Atsumu Miya's damn fault.

An apology forms on his lips, but never escapes. Honestly, it's probably for the better that Atsumu attributes his sudden outburst to rudeness instead of the far worse _disease_ that he seems to have caught. One that weakens his mind, allows Atsumu to trample all over it with his all-consuming presence and radiating warmth.

Then Atsumu is walking, and Kiyoomi falls back to reality for real this time.

"Where are you going?"

"To get vodka an' drown my sorrows 'cause my husband's ignorin' me," there's a pang of guilt in his chest at that, the knowledge that the half-hearted jest is also half-true ringing in his ribcage.

He wants to apologize - for the first time, he has to stop himself before the words escape his lips as easily as breathing, an uncommon occurance when the only apologies he'd ever made were forced and for the fondness of the public eye. But Kiyoomi bites his tongue and presses his lips into a flat line, following after his husband like a lost puppy.

Fuck, he means his "husband." Disregard that last sentence.

The kitchen is stainless steel and shiny, Kiyoomi doesn't think he's ever stepped foot in it save for a few games of hide and seek with Kiyoko and Wakatoshi. There are a lot of rooms, actually, that Kiyoomi has never seen or explored, if only because he's never had the time or motivation.

His entire life has always been work, work, work until you drop dead because that's the job you inherited, that's the path laid out before you and there's no point in straying from it. Why explore, why do anything that isn't related to furthering your status or academic knowledge? What's the point if not to prove yourself to people you will never know the names of?

Atsumu roots around in a stainless steel cabinet, bottles screeching loudly as he shuffles things around, looking for what he really wants. There's something cute about it - disregarding the fact that he's searching for hard liquor. Something sweet about how he has to stand on his tiptoes and definitely can't see what he's reaching for. It's cute how he has to pull each bottle out individually and-

And Kiyoomi turns away, closes his eyes, and scrubs a hand over his face to erase the memory of a ticklish feeling budding throughout his chest. This is fine. It's fine. If he doesn't look at Atsumu he can't be affected by him. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Wrong, Atsumu's back on his mind seconds later when a hand reaches for his wrist - an insistence rather than a question. A demand for company even if Kiyoomi is the only one around to give it to him. He wonders briefly what it must feel like to be Atsumu's first choice, or anyone's, really. Wonders if someone could see him like that. If Atsumu could.

When they return to the living room, Atsumu fiddles with the light switch for a moment before managing to get it somewhere in between dim and too-dark. He has a talent for lighting, it seems. Then he flops down on the couch, seemingly dejected, his mood matching the sterling silver rain and gunmetal clouds that hover just outside the window.

With the hesitance of a rabbit, Kiyoomi sits lightly next to him - well, next to is a stretch. In reality, he's on the other side of the couch, hands folded politely in his lap seeing as he doesn't know how to approach this version of Atsumu. He's seen the man when he's breaking down, seen him almost giddy, dealt with him on a daily basis. But this is just...

Sad. He's sad. Lonely, maybe? Thinking about something else entirely that doesn't have to do with Kiyoomi? For his own sake, Kiyoomi hopes it's the latter. There's something just a bit too somber for his taste about knowing Atsumu feels alone when he's with him. Something half-hearted, like a forgotten childhood toy or a half-written piece of sheet music.

Atsumu takes his first drink lying down. Kiyoomi waits for him to choke on it, but he doesn't, swallowing down the burning liquid stubbornly as a flush creeps it's way onto his cheeks from the effort.

Atsumu takes the TV remote in hand, bypasses Netflix completely and scours their movie library for Love Actually. It's his favorite - Kiyoomi really wouldn't have pegged him for a rom-com guy, maybe like a mindless action-adventure kind of person, but romance never entered the picture. And yet Atsumu's seen it a million times and is seemingly willing to watch it again.

Kiyoomi would complain, but as Atsumu takes another drink from the _entire_ bottle of Vodka (because why use cups when you can drink straight from the source?), Kiyoomi figures his "husband" might need something a little more than jesting and snarky comments.

"Atsumu," Kiyoomi doesn't know where that was supposed to lead as he places a hand on his "husband's" elbow. Apperently, Atsumu isn't in the mood for a heart to heart (which Kiyoomi is somewhat thankful for considering he'd be totally bullshitting his way through it anyway) because instead of any form of a reasonable response, he pushes the bottle in Kiyoomi's face and says,

"Shut up or drink, please, I'm tryina watch a movie."

Kiyoomi can't argue with that logic. Against his better judgment, he takes the bottle and drinks, wincing as burning alcohol singes a trail down his esophagus.

Kiyoomi has never seen the point of getting drunk just to be drunk. Never quite understood what could compel a person to desire the dryness of their throat and wetness of their eyes in disgusting contrast to one another. Never understood why anyone wouldn't want to be thinking properly, why inebriation sounded at all appealing. But watching Atsumu sulk, he can understand the need for a pastime beyond wallowing, the desire for something to add interest to a mundane existence, especially for someone like Atsumu Miya.

So he drinks, slower than Atsumu seems to care to, but he drinks. And he watches what he personally considers to be a movie with shitty plot devices, and he doesn't complain about it because Atsumu is sad and maybe if he just shuts up for a little bit, Atsumu will stop being sad and they can go back to things being normal.

Sad Atsumu creates a pit in his stomach that his mind can't seem to claw its way out of. Instead, it spirals, trips over what it can do to aid his "husband" back to a healthy sense of balance.

Kiyoomi hates caring about people. He doesn't notice it while it's happening but when something bad happens, Kiyoomi is left at a loss for words and actions, unable to do anything but watch the chaos unfurl like a flower in the springtime.

It's not a bad view - Atsumu blushing even if it is from the alcohol, sprawled out on his side, muscles flexing with the awkward position, hair messy and haphazard because apparently there's no point in brushing it if he's not going somewhere. Kiyoomi's stomach is still in knots, for many reasons, some known to him, others mysteries.

Either way he's quite enjoying looking at Atsumu, even if he knows he will regret the copious amounts of staring he's indulging himself in when he's not slightly buzzed and sucking down vodka. Even if the scene is sad, morose, dipped in dejection and bathed in melancholy.

And then Atsumu says something that plants silence where his words should be and fear where his confidence once stood. He says,

"Y'think anyone could ever love me like that?"

_Yes,_ is his brain's immediate response. Then, _don't tell him that._ He has to be sick or something, or the alcohol has developed a mind of its own in his body and it's only a matter of time before it takes him over completely. Because he thinks, _Yes, I think many people love you like that. I think I love you like that-_

Like the coward he is, he douses his own thoughts in sharp-edged vodka, setting them alight along with any hopes of going back to the way things were. Back before he knew Atsumu Miya, back before he cared about Atsumu Miya, back before Atsumu Miya somehow became his husband.

When _did_ that happen? When did husband become a word to think and mull over instead of a repulsive concept Kiyoomi forced into submission? When did it become a word threaded with a person instead of a title given to a stranger? Eyes staring at the brightly lit screen in front of him, Kiyoomi thinks that trying to pinpoint such an amorphous moment would be like trying to rewind a movie blind-folded and earmuffed.

"Why is this coming up now?" He nearly chokes on the lame excuse for a response.

Atsumu doesn't notice or doesn't care, allowing his arm to flop over the side of the couch bonelessly. There's a space between Atsumu's back and the back of the couch. Kiyoomi wants to curl up in it, press his face against the nape of Atsumu's neck and breathe in deep the scent of honey and rasperries and something uniquely Atsumu. Let it infect his soul like everything else the Miya prince does.

He doesn't. Doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't wrap his arms around his husband - oh just fuck it, he's tipsy and Atsumu's pretty, he can regret it tomorrow (knows he will), for now, Atsumu can be his husband - and whisper, _maybe I love you. Maybe I do. I think I maybe might._

Instead, he listens as Atsumu says, voice watery as it exerts itself to rise above the soft racket of the TV,

"I had a girlfriend once, y'know. Multiple girlfriends, actually. An' they all broke up with me fer the same reason," a slew of emotions hits Kiyoomi in the face like a ton of bricks - _he had a girlfriend? He dated women? Did he like dating women better than men? Thank god they broke up with him. But who the fuck would do that?_

"'Yer a conceited, arrogant, asshole,'" he quotes, Kiyoomi swallows thickly. More than ten. He's probably said those exact words more than ten times. The only difference is that he's still here. Those other girls aren't. _Their loss, I guess._ "I thought it was bullshit at the time I was like, 'ya don't know what the fuck yer talkin' about. I'm Atsumu Miya, I'm a fuckin' treasure.'"

And then a pause. Atsumu watches the movie in his awkward position, stuck in his chaotic head, stuck in whatever memory he's reliving. Just stuck in a moment in time that Kiyoomi feels is suffocating, like all the breathable air held in _that moment_ is filling his lungs, less with each breath.

"But they were right, Omi. I'm a conceited, arrogant, asshole. An' I'm a screwup an' a failure," _don't say that,_ vodka burns his throat just to fill it. His mouth can't run if it's full. Hazel eyes are sparkly, like moonlight on ocean waves. A tear - or maybe a lot of tears - falls across the bridge of his nose. "An' the one time I try ta do somethin' genuinely kind an' helpful in my worthless life, it fuckin' burns to the ground. An' I can't do anythin' about it. I couldn't even help my brother."

He chokes on a sob, Kiyoomi keeps drinking as if he can burn up his feelings with alcohol. Drown them until they're nothing but faint whispers in the background of his vodka-addled mind.

"I wasn't good enough fer them. An' I'm not good enough fer 'Samu. I'm not good enough fer _you_ , but at least _you_ have an out. Y'can divorce me whenever ya want but everyone else's stuck with me."

"Someone could love me, y'know," he says like it's a sure fact, a brief moment of stone-solid confidence, arrogance, even, before a question at a whisper that Kiyoomi can never un-hear. "I'm not unloveable, am I?"

_No._

_Not to me._

Hell if it doesn't hurt. It hurts like holding your breath for too long underwater or digging a knife between your ribs or being kicked in the stomach - Kiyoomi could draw a hundred comparisons but they're useless if you haven't allowed an 'I love you' to die on your tongue, if you haven't watched it bleed to death on your taste buds until all that's left is sterling-silver rain, a bottle of half-empty vodka, and a movie with shitty plot devices.

It's too much and too little all at once, what he's getting from Atsumu. The pet names, the flirting, the gorgeous smiles that Atsumu wears for him, they're all too much, too much beautiful, too much radiance, they make him feel too much when he's used to not feeling much at all, tamping down the emotions he does have into a controllable state. And not enough because everything he can't have - the kisses, the sincerity, the 'I love you's' - is just out of reach.

And it all becomes just a little bit more than he can handle, so he slots himself in a place where he knows he'll find unconditional comfort. He falls onto his side, ungracefully, indelicately, fitting himself between Atsumu and the back of the couch as he throws a boneless arm over his husband's waist. He dips his head to Atsumu's neck and breathes in deep - Atsumu's shampoo is, like everything else about him, sweet and honeyed.

Being here, like this, with Atsumu's back pressed to his chest, with his face buried in hair so soft it could be made of silk- It is a feeling unrivaled by gold or grandeur, like stepping into the sunshine after a freezing hailstorm. It's silken and warm and Kiyoomi wants to make a blanket out of whatever this feeling is, wrap himself in it when the world is cold and harsh.

And it's here, like this, that Kiyoomi lets the barest hint of the maelstrom of emotions slip through the cracks.

"Stop...stop being sad," _please,_ he might say if he were open even a little bit to the prospect of begging. He continues despite himself, lips moving against Atsumu's nape in a way that must be at least a little ticklish.

"When you're sad, you're so..." there are other adjectives, there definitely are. There's a whole fucking dictionary of them. But all Kiyoomi can think of when he tries to articulate how a Sad Atsumu makes him feel is... "Sad."

There's a short, then a laugh that's as musical as it is obnoxious, and if Atsumu can feel Kiyoomi's smile against his neck, then Kiyoomi doesn't really care. It's a stupid dopy grin, completely uncharacteristic and never to see the light of day again, but that's why he has this hiding place.

"Yer vocabulary is astoundin'," still laced with tears, Atsumu's voice is raw and fleshy. Kiyoomi feels like it's a side of the Miya prince he shouldn't be seeing, and yet one he adores equally as much as all the others.

"Shut up. You're the one who made me this way."

"What way?"

Kiyoomi falters a moment, just a moment, fumbling with what to say next. There are just so many options, so many potential excuses and only one possible truth. Languages need to have less words, just to make it easier on the not-romantics at heart. The people who don't know what to say when confronted with feelings that don't have formal names.

He settles for the literal, so much easier than what he's really thinking.

"Drunk. And...and," _and maybe possibly in love with you- wait, not in love with you._ Kiyoomi doesn't know anymore. He'll think about tomorrow when one thought that barely qualifies as rational stops bleeding into another, when he's bright-eyed and clear-headed. When Atsumu's warmth isn't lulling him to sleep, when the smell of his shampoo isn't clouding his brain.

Tomorrow when the mourning period for his lost 'I love you' is over and done with.

Yeah. Tomorrow will be good.  
  
  


\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your support and lovely comments luvs! <3 I will hold them close and use them as my fuel for writing in the future uwu.


	19. it's all just pins and needles - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So...yer in love with him, right?"

"So...yer in love with him, right?"

Atsumu chokes and manages by some great feat of physics not to drop his phone on his face. Panic still rushing through him, he jolts to a sitting position, nearly pulling out his headphones on the way up - Kiyoomi's in some sort of meeting with his parents which means he has some alone time which, with Atsumu, is the equivilent of torture.

Though, he still feels he should've been smart enough to know not to call Osamu of all people. The only reason he made what he now knows was a stupid move was because he was (though he wouldn't deign to admit it) lonely. And no, not because Kiyoomi left him to suffer alone (okay _yes,_ a tiny little bit, he maybe misses his "husband"), but because he's been completely cut off from the outside world until rumors of reality begin to die down.

"What?! No. Where the fuck didja get that?"

"I dunno, from the way ya talk about him. The fact thatcher callin' me, yer total overreaction to a simple question. They're all valid reasons," Osamu sounds too clam and, honestly, it's beyond angering. Because Atsumu can't be talking about him that favorably, and that definitely wasn't an overreaction...was it?

"Okay one, that wasn't a simple question, y'asked me if I was in love. An' two, I don't talk about him-"

"Oh my godja literally talk about him _so much,_ how d'ya not hear yerself?"

"Can ya shut up? I was gonna say _positively,_ so I don't know where ya got the idea that I even _like_ him," he has to speak slowly, making sure his tongue doesn't twist what he's trying to say into what he's actually thinking. Reflecting the burning of his cheeks and the erratic rhythm of his heart would only add validity to his brother's speculation, and if he's being honest, that's the one thing he can't deal with right now.

"No, it's just _cuz_ ya talk about him so much," the sound of a knife on a cutting board slices through his phone speaker - Osamu always cooks when he's anxious. Which actually makes Atsumu wonder where he is considering their parents would've caught onto their scheme by now if they saw him, what Atsumu likes to call, Stress Cooking™. "No- Baby, y'can't do that, I can't cook like this."

Atsumu wrinkles his nose in confusion before a familiar, lazy voice crackles through the phone.

"Then stop doing that and hang out with me," _Ah, Sunarin,_ Atsumu lets his eyes drag back in his skull as he mocks his childhood friend's words silently - though he's sure Osamu can probably feel it through their freaky twin bond or whatever. So that's where he is. Basking in the glow of his perfect relationship while Atsumu is out here suffering in the cold alone.

"This is literally fer you. Yer the one who saidja were hungry," Atsumu's used to the snapping tone of his brother's voice, used to the slight exasperation. But he's not used to the fondness so ever-present, lacing every word like the silver lining of a storm cloud. Atsumu has never felt lonelier.

"Yeah, okay, I get it, you're sweet. But now I'm hungry for something el-"

"Quit it with yer perfect fuckin' relationship already! An' stop bein' horny over speaker phone," Atsumu chides, more for himself than for them. He knows the petulant pout in his voice is most definitely evident through the speaker, but he can't bring himself to care.

Look, it's just not fair. Not fair that his brother has a perfect life, not fair that he helped facilitate it even though he'd do it again in a heartbeat. Not fair that he doesn't have anyone to cuddle or kiss or lay on top of while he complains about his very minimal responsibilities. Not fair that he doesn't have anyone to say 'I love you' to. Not fair. Because he wants that. Because he wants-

"Oh, _hello Atsumu,_ " Suna's definitely looking at Osamu with the 'you didn't tell me your brother was on the phone' look, and Osamu's definitely responding with the 'this is totally not my fault' look. And they're definitely having a silent conversation even though neither of them know how to read lips. Atsumu knows this because he's experienced it first hand.

"Stop silently bickering an' help me with my love life! I broughtcha two together, I can tear ya apart too," he threatens baselessly.

"Yeah, an' sendjer self ta jail along with us. Go right fuckin' ahead."

"Oh fuck off!" Osamu makes an exasperated sound through the phone, knife coming down in harder, more aggressive strokes, a non-verbal cue that he's getting genuinely annoyed with his brother. Atsumu hardly has the mind to care. He'll start worrying when Osamu starts calling him by his full name - that's pretty much the precurser to 'you have three seconds to run before I commit fratricide'.

"Just tell him ya love him an' live happily ever after! It ain't that hard an' it'd certainly stop ya from botherin' _me_ about it."

"I'm not in love with him!" Atsumu doesn't know why he feels like he needs to say it, doesn't know why he feels like there's something he needs to prove. But he does, as though falling would be a crime. Maybe it is. Certainly a mistake he can't un-make.

"Oh right, my mistake. Ya just talk about him all the time, think about him just as much, if not more, spend all yer free time with him, an' get all cranky and snappy when he's gone. Yer definitely _not_ in love with him," Atsmu growls low in his throat because, no, he doesn't have a counter to that annoyingly well-constructed argument other than, _I've never been in love so I wouldn't know, would I?_ Which really just sounds sad and pathetic and something he will never say to anyone much less his _brother_ of all people.

Though, he supposes being in love with a man who quite literally despises every fiber of your being also qualifies as sad and pathetic. Man, when did he fuck the universe over and why can't it just let bygones be bygones?

Atsumu claws a hand through his hair in frustration, flopping back onto the bed with a huffy sigh. Dissatisfied, that's all he can really call it. He's dissatisfied with what he has - feelings for a man who doesn't (or maybe couldn't possibly) return them, a soon-to-be job that's about as entertaining as watching paint dry, and a husband who's perfectly happy to divorce him whenever the chance presents itself. He supposes the first and last one are just two sides of the same fucked up coin.

And the worst part is that _he chose this._ He chose this. He could've gone on and lived his life, lamented the loss of his brother to a system completely out of their control. He could've found someone who actually loved him, fallen for someone who could return the feelings, gotten a job he actually liked, lived a life that made him happy.

But Atsumu _chose this._

Which means that he can't get angry and he can't get upset because all of this is his own damn fault. And there's no one to blame because no matter how many redos he gets, he'll always make the same decision. How fucked up is that?

"Yeah, well it's not just easy like that," is all he can think to say in response - no denial, no anger, just submission, _I give up._

"Ya say 'I love ya' ta people all the time. How's this any different?" Atsumu could be pursueded to hear the compassion in his brother's voice if he wasn't in a state of exstistential dread regarding his future.

"Ya don't get it," Osamu could never get it. The only person he's ever loved wholeheartedly returns his feelings _and_ wants to be with him for the rest of eternity. "Y'an' Sunarin are perfect. Always have been, always will be. An' I'm happer fer ya about that. I seriously am, butcha _don't get it._ "

"Just think about it," Atsumu doesn't like to consider himself a bitter person, but the sadness in his voice - bitter in its own right - leaks through his words, even as he valiantly tries to close the tap and cut it off. "Ya met in middle school, ya became best friends, ya fell in love. Ya confessed ta him an' he actually _returned_ yer feelings, yer perfectly happy, ya work yer shit out like adults- Ya just don't get it 'cause yer _always_ perfect. Yer the perfect twin an' I'm the screw-up."

"Ya've never loved someone who doesn't love ya back. Andja never will so..."

Atsumu plays with the end of his hoodie string, swallowing the lump in his throat and trying to fill the whole in his sternum with plaster - maybe it'll take the sting away for a bit. Maybe it'll stop his chest from collapsing in on itself from the mere admission of such a damning crime. It holds no sentance attached to its name, no shame, just sadness, a crushing yet wholely inescapable weight.

There's silence so static Atsumu thinks his brother might have walked away during his speech and he just didn't realize it - maybe it's justified, Atsumu can't imagine that hearing him be pathetic and lonely can be more interesting than your boyfriend ready and willing to bang you. Not that he'll ever admit that to Osamu, of course.

But then theres a sound like the gentle settling of a knife onto a cutting board, and Osamu says,

"Yeah. Maybe not. But ya saved me. Lemme save you," and Atsumu sort of wants to cry just a little bit. Not that he will ever let himself, not like this. Definitely not at something _Osamu_ said. "Take my advice. Tell him. An' maybe he'll reject ya, an' maybe it'll hurt, an' maybe you'll think ya never shoulda listened ta me. But at least then you'll know ya haven't found _him_ yet."

Atsumu barely sniffles, but he knows his brother hears it with those abnormally sensitive bat ears of his, one of the few physical traits they don't share.

"It's better than not knowin'."

Atsumu's not sure how true that is. Maybe if he doesn't know, the feelings will go away. Maybe if he doesn't know, he can get over it. Maybe if he doesn't know, he won't hurt, and he can live a numb existence for the rest of his life. Maybe.

And maybe if he doesn't know it'll make everything worse because the not-knowing of it all is the reason he's hurting in the first place.

Atsumu is stuck, left raw with only a lump in his throat and a hole in his chest, and his brother, the last thread of comfort he has to hold onto as he lives a life he's not built for with a man that's not his, not really.

_Not really._

_\---_

Kiyoomi deicdes that he'll burn this room once he's king.

His father's study is his least favorite room in the entire palace, the only one other than his bedroom that he's spent enough time in to call home, the only one that makes his stomach sink and his heart shrivel in his chest. It makes him feels dark and stormy, inky eyes reflecting every memory he never wanted to call his own, every outburst and screaming match and punishment and 'here's the bad news' his life has to offer - which is a lot.

And in all his years, it's never changed. The velvet drapes that block out all semblance of light when drawn still stand in all their faded glory. The nicknacks on his father's desk having not been so much as nudged for so long that moats of dust guard hem closely. The bookshelves that line the walls with their mahogany finish and armies of neatly arranged books looming over him like dwarfing giants.

This room makes him small, keeps him helpless, and strips him of title and rank and anything that gives him any semblance of power in this world.

This instance is no different. Shrouded in the darkness of a rainstorm, vision aided only by the artificial warmth of a fireplace, Kiyoomi sits a statue as his father's physician takes off his glasses - it's bad news.

Ten years. That's how long Doctor Glassman has been the Sakusa family's official medical consultant. That's how long Kiyoomi's been receiving bad news from him. That's how long Kiyoomi's sat here and watched him remove those wire-frame glasses from an equally wirey face, sunken eyes an accent for his gauntness.

"Out with it, Charles," Akihito says, curt as ever - he never was one to appreciate niceties, never one to indulge petty small talk or inconvenient pleasentries. Instead, he'd prefer to jump straight to the incision site, cut to the point as efficiantly as possible.

Charles is too nice a man for their family. Too gentle a soul for their world. Apperently, he hasn't caught onto that yet.

"Your cancer...is inoperable," but they already knew that, so why is he distressed? The already hard lines of his face grow thicker, the shadows they cast longer, the weariness of stormy gray eyes feels accentuated by the thunder that bellows loudly outside, commanding their attention selfishly. "Which you already knew. But...it's aggressive. Which means... your majesty-"

He stops himself there, Kiyoomi doesn't breathe, doesn't move, just sits as though he has no conscious thought beyond this frozen moment. Charles rubs the bridge of his nose, scruffs a hand through rapidly thinning hair - he's probably aged twenty years in the ten he's been with them. Kiyoomi's father has that effect on people. Hell, _Kiyoomi_ has that effect on people.

"Akihito, you have six months to live. At most...I'm...so sorry."

_Kiyoomi tips the snow globe, watches white glitter fall. If only he could turn his own world upside down like that, flip all of this on it's head, get rid of his father's cancer, get rid of the snow, leave only the domestic warmth of summer without all this...._ this.

"We can...make sure you're comfortable. But, that's about all we can do, for the time being," Kiyoomi just stares, eyes fixed straight ahead, body and face so numb he wouldn't be able to tell what expression he's making if someone read it to him from a note card.

"I...I would like to discuss what your experience will be like in the coming months and what we can do to make it as comfortable as possible....Do you think we could have the room? Ms. Sakusa, you can stay but...I don't think your son needs to hear this."

Every word, each syllable, the inflection of his voice. It's all muted, just background noise for the dull buzzing that rings unceasingly in Kiyoomi's head, no off-switch, no silencer. It's ever-present and all-consuming, disposing of it a futile effort. Everything, all of it, just numb.

So numb it's worse than feeling anything at all.

_But when is he going to get better?_ The nineteen-year-old in him asks, stupidly hoping, or rather not willing to see the reality plainly stated before him.

There's nothing like knowing and then suddenly _not_ knowing. Assured facts, just the feeling that something is going to happen, that everything will be alright, being cracked in half before your eyes. _But_ when _is he going to get better?_

_When?_

_Never._

Kiyoomi is escorted from the room by a maid, her grip as tender as it is emotionless - she's just doing her job - until he is standing outside mahogany double doors, left on the outside, as he always is.

And all over again he's nineteen years old, standing in the snow, hands cold and shaking but not possessing the energy to lift into his pockets. Staring out at the vast exapnse of plain white _nothing_ and wondering too absently, _is this what heaven would look like?_

Locked out and alone, he stands as a ghost, breaks so fully and completely that he thinks he might never know how to be whole again. And he doesn't cry, not yet at least, because for the current moment, he's too numb to remember what that feels like or how to go about doing it.

So he stands and he stares as if he can see what's happening across the plane of smooth wooden doors. Like maybe, if he waits long enough, something will change, he'll recollect all his pieces and get everything to run smoothly again.

Numb.

Kiyoomi walks down the hallway, no destination in mind, and he is numb.

It's all just pins and needles.   
  
  


\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your lovely comments and encouragement ! i hope you know i hold them close and use them as my fuel for writing motivation~ 
> 
> have a lovely day/night and stay safe luvs~! <3


	20. it's all just pins and needles - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think I owe you a favor."

Pain.

Kiyoomi closes the door to his bedroom and he is in pain. Unimaginably so.

Pins and needles erased, knocked away like the pitiful things they are against the raging winds and stormy hurricanes that tear at his chest and steal away the breathable air into spinning vortexes. They scream and they howl and they want revenge for a crime with no perpetrator, demand justice for a victim with no attacker.

He can't breathe and he can't think and the walls are caving in and yet there is nothing for miles-

And he sees Atsumu sitting up, pulling out earbuds, and he needs- He just needs-

What does he need?

Atsumu gives him the amorphous, unnamed thing he's missing, arms welcoming and soft as Kiyoomi crashes into him like the whirlwind of chaos he is, untamed and built of turmoil and anarchy, limbs a tangled mess as he falls and takes his husband with him. Atsumu is a single point of calm in a world falling to billions of tiny pieces slipping through his fingers. Atsumu gathers him up, inhumanly gentle.

And Kiyoomi cries, so hard it hurts to breathe and hurts to say anything at all and the sobs his chest forces out tear at his esophagus until it's scratched raw. And he cries so fast and hard and angry that his head hurts and his ribs ache his body feels like it's being torn in two but it's still not enough.

He wants to scream. But he doesn't have the voice or the will. He's angry with nowhere to go and no place to put it, sad with nothing but stupid, pitiful tears to show for it.

He is small and weak and helpless and he wants to burn that room and this memory and this moment, set it all alight and watch it go up in flames as he walks back into normal, _but he can't._

He is stuck with this moment, this reality, this feeling, and it hurts more than anything he's ever felt before, makes him wish he were dead because oh, it would be so much sweeter.

It _hurts._

His arms around Atsumu are tight and constricting, leaving no breathable air for either of them, drowning both, blunt nails trimmed too low dig at soft skin and yet...And yet Atsumu wraps him in a warm embrace and holds him until Kiyoomi melts. Melts from raging storms of breakneck speeds and cutting winds to rolling sobs that wring the water from his body and steal his energy bit by bit until he withers.

Atsumu holds him, firm but gentle, as Kiyoomi cries so broken and fragmented because this is so many drawn-out years of overdue tears and bottled up anger that are spilling out all at once. A story of loss told between hiccups chokes and strangled cries that have no shape or name because no one in such a state was ever thinking clear enough to them one.

Atsumu holds him soft and sweet, chin tucked over Kiyoomi's head, callused fingers playing with curls at the nape of his neck even as his tears soak through Atsumu's thin t-shirt, even as they pool near his collarbone and fall across his neck. Even though this, whatever this is, cannot possibly be comfortable for Atsumu.

Atsumu holds him, genuine, unwavering, until Kiyoomi spends all his tears and sobs dry and rough against his shoulder, body shaking with the effort of squeezing his husband in a bruising grip. Holds him until that remains is uneven breaths accented by soft hiccups. Until Kiyoomi is too weak to do anything but lay there and gather Atsumu close like he's the only thing that matters in this world falling apart underneath his feet.

Atsumu just...holds him.

It's so tender that Kiyoomi wants to cry again for a hundred different reasons that all bleed together into one, shapeless feeling. For once, he is not untethered, free-floating in a sea of his own emotions. He's not scared of drowning in them and never coming back up to the surface. For once, he is grounded. He is held. 

It could be hours that they lay there, for all he knows, Atsumu could be asleep under him - though he doesn't know how one would manage such a feat with a fully grown man cutting off their air supply. He says nothing about it, neither of them do. 

Kiyoomi doesn't think about the future - or rather refuses to - doesn't think about how, tomorrow, they might go back to being "husbands". Doesn't think about how his father will plan his own funeral with meticulous detail because he's anal-retentive like that. He doesn't think about standing in a plane of pure white and wishing he could flip his world on its head so he could live where the snow falls up. Where everything is pretty and magical instead of bleak and hopeless. 

What he thinks about is the steady heartbeat playing a soothing rhythm in his ear, how he can feel it reverberating against his own ribcage. He thinks about his arms falling asleep where they're looped around and under Atsumu's waist. He thinks about Atsumu's hands holding him gently, about silent comfort because sometimes words are too flimsy of things to dull an ache so sharp. 

When he finally gathers the will to move and pushes himself up from Atsumu's chest, he discovers that, no, in fact, Atsumu is not asleep. Instead, he's staring up at Kiyoomi with soft eyes and an even softer expression, so mushy and undefined in its meaning that it could be interpreted as any number of things. 

Kiyoomi wants to kiss him. He wants to hold Atsumu's face between his palms and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. _Thank you._

He doesn't. 

Instead, he crawls to the other side of the bed and flops down on his side, back facing his husband and cold seeping back into every place warmth used to call home. His head hits the pillow and he just feels so _tired._ But not like he could sleep, still jittery from crying. He just feels exhausted, like his soul needs to sit stagnant until it gathers the energy to calm itself. 

Kiyoomi just needs to stop feeling, just for a little bit. 

But his plans are dashed with brutal efficiency when a gentle hand comes up to caress at his tricep, wordless comfort, _I'm here._ And he sighs into the feeling, not of his own volition, though he supposes it hardly matters now. What's the point of not being in love when your world is ending? What's the point of saving face when you're breaking down faster than you can collect the pieces? 

Kiyoomi doesn't look at Atsumu, eyes fixed on the moon out the window across from him. With movement slow like molasses, he brings his opposite hand up to lace their fingers in a gesture so saccharine it could be plucked straight from a daydream. He's not happy, but he's safe. He feels loved and held, even if it's just a momentary break in the norm, even if it'll morph into regret in the morning. Even if Atsumu doesn't want or need him as desperately he needs Atsumu, or maybe at all. 

"I think I owe you a favor," Kiyoomi says, the confession muted to his own ears. In the seconds preceding it, he wonders if he even said it out loud, or if maybe it was just a wordless wish. 

There's a beat of silence where he doesn't look at Atsumu's expression and doesn't let go of his hand and doesn't do anything but stare out the window like he'd said something perfectly normal. 

He doesn't want to see Atsumu's expression, doesn't want to see what might be hate or disgust or disbelief or all three rolled into one. He doesn't want to face reality just yet, wants to fall asleep on this feeling, this relative numbness, this almost floaty sense of, _oh well,_ that drowns him whole. The not-thinking is sating, freeing, and he wants to cherish and hold it while he still can. Before he wakes up. Before...before whatever happens happens and he doesn't have a chance to change it.

"Okay, goodnight." Kiyoomi detangles their hands, pulls the covers up, and wills himself to fall asleep before Atsumu's mind manages to dissect his words.

He doesn't get his wish. The floodgates open and noise fills the silence, as if Atsumu's brain needed a moment to compute, a momentary stall before everything catches up to him in a rush. 

"Hold on wait- What?! Ya can't just say that an' then ' _okay good night_ '," Atsumu nearly yells into the virtual silence, a poor imitation of Kiyoomi's slightly deeper timber tail-ending his outburst. "What the fuck?! Hey! Look at me! That's not how this works!" 

Kiyoomi shrugs with one shoulder, the gesture half as effective as it should be considering he's laying down. Though he hardly cares. There's an interesting sense of numbness that comes along with such a confession. Or maybe that's a lingering feeling from earlier. Maybe they're irrevocably entangled.

"In this situation, that is how this works," it's completely irrational, entirely unreasonable. No, he shouldn't just leave Atsumu hanging like that. It's unfair and selfish, but Kiyoomi is a selfish person and he just _needs_ this. Needs it just to sit, undefined and perfect in its simplicity. He doesn't need a response or a confirmation, just _not rejection._

"Well what if I have something ta say?" _Don't say it,_ Kiyoomi is tempted to snap. But he doesn't, just closes his eyes and waits for the _I don't love you,_ lays like a stone, waiting for the inevitable but clearly fleshed out denial that's about to come. 

Who would love him if they don't have to? They're not tethered by a previously existing bond. If Atsumu waits one more month he can run from his place, back to his old life just like he's wanted to since the very beginning. Why stay? Why love Kiyoomi if he's under no obligation to do so? 

So Kiyoomi waits, patiently, because even though he is, at his core, not a patient person, he feels he can be one just this once, just this one time he'll let go of the urgency. 

His expectations are never fulfilled - though he supposes that Atsumu has a habit of annoyingly side-stepping anything he knows to be an assured fact. It's not a quality he would have ever imagined finding charming. Not something he would've ever anticipated wanting, and yet it's one of the parts of Atsumu he loves the most. 

"What if I want ta say...I love ya?" 

_Fuck numbness,_ his heart seems to say as it damn near explodes in his chest, driving out the cold and replacing it with an overwhelming affection that burns so hot, Kiyoomi thinks it might just sear a hole in his chest. _Oh my god, I love you too. I love you so much. I love you so much it makes my head hurt sometimes._

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

"Technically I never told you I loved you," is what comes out because he's back on his bullshit. There's something comforting about the normalcy of the shove that's planted on his shoulder seconds later, comforting to know that he's no longer raw and bleeding vulnerability. Comforting to know that Atsumu can hold him one second and push him the next, changing and adapting with Kiyoomi's tidal waves of emotion as easily as breathing. 

"Asshole. That's whatcha are. Yer an asshole," Atsumu flops down on the bed with an exaggerated thunk, though Kiyoomi can tell his husband is still facing him because he can feel a hazel-eyed glare burning a hole in his shoulder blade. 

In his mind's eye, he can see the pouty expression, the pushed-out bottom lip he wants to tug between his teeth, the slight furrow of eyebrows that leaves a cute little crease between them, the crimson flush of soft cheeks he wants to hold between his palms. _Normal._ It's all so heartbreakingly normal. Kiyoomi wants to cry with sadness or relief. Maybe a twisted combination of both because emotions are inherently twisted, mushy, undefined things. 

Gently rolling his body, Kiyoomi turns on his side to face Atsumu, allowing himself to look at his husband as such. As a man to hold and cherish and love just like he half-heartedly promised he'd do on the altar. 

There's nothing half-hearted about this moment. 

With a hesitant hand, Kiyoomi rests his palm on the side of Atsumu's face, tucking loose strands of hair behind his ear - they require no attention, but Kiyoomi showers his upon them anyway. Atsumu's face is warm, probably from embarrassment, maybe a whole host of other emotions that Kiyoomi's not seeing written between the fold of his lips and each flutter of long eyelashes. 

So beautiful. 

And now he is happy, but still sad, but still numb, and he's so confused. Because how can you be happy and sad and numb all at once when all three are diametrically opposed? How can love someone and mourn another and try to shut out both? 

Kiyoomi decides not to question it, decides that maybe, this is just how it is for now. That maybe, this overwhelming nothing and everything all at once is healing the fissures in his damaged persona. That letting himself just _feel_ for once is better than having an explanation for why. 

"I love you too," the words taste so sweet on his tongue even at a whisper, made even more deliciously saccharine by the fact that they are the most honest words he's ever spoken. 

Then he turns on his side again to face the moon. Only this time, he presses his back to Atsumu's warm chest, and Atsumu drapes an arm around his waist and holds his opposite hand. And Kiyoomi can feel the way Atsumu buries his face in dark curls and places tiny, tender kisses to his scalp and squeezes his hand gently with each one. 

And he feels _safe._ No more pins and needles, no more pain, no more numbness. Those are future emotions for future times. No more dying fathers or bleak projections to be obsessed over. He knows it will become overwhelming again all too soon. And when it does, he knows he'll find solace in this man. Atsumu. His husband. 

There's nothing again for a long time. So long that Kiyoomi is conversing idly with sleep, dancing on the precipice just barely when Atsumu speaks into the soft silence, 

"Omi, why were ya cryin'?" 

_Oh_ , he'd forgotten about that. Atsumu doesn't know. Kiyoomi inhales and exhales, a mental ritual developed on the spot just to give him the courage to mold the truth in words. Reality is a hard pill to swallow, but it's even harder to choke back up when asked to recite. 

He bites his tongue three times, swallows four, before finally managing to get out with a voice that sounds like someone rubbed it down with sandpaper,

"My father has six months." It's not even a complete thought. Five little words, and yet the sting behind his eyes returns and the knot creeps its way back up his throat with reckless abandon. 

_Six months to live. Six months before he becomes a corpse in the ground. Six months before I lose him._

Atsumu doesn't say anything after that. Lips sealed shut because he _knows._ They both know that Kiyoomi doesn't need to hear that everything will be okay, that things are going to get better, that this too shall pass, the Atsumu is _sorry_ or whatever other bullshit people say when they don't know what it feels like to hurt so deep and genuine. He needs silence. He needs to be held. He needs to feel loved. 

Instead, Atsumu holds him tighter, wraps a leg over his hips in the same way he did the first night they slept in the same room. Then, Kiyoomi had elbowed him in the stomach, unable to take the thought of sleeping such a way for the rest of his night. Now, he leans into the warmth, takes the feeling for what it is - _I love you._ And there is no rancid desire for freedom or deeply shallow annoyance. Just, _I love you too._

No words, just, _I love you._

_\---_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey luvs~ as you can see, i'm back on my bullshit metaphors and run-on sentances uwu ✧ still though, i hope you enjoyed this wrap-up to the last chapter and omi's ~✧Confession✧~. i'm looking forward to writing a few chapters of wholesome fluff after all this Angst™. 
> 
> as always, ily guys and hope you have a lovely day/night~!


	21. like...with tongue?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Demon."

Kiyoomi wakes to a warm weight on his chest, wrapped in soft sunlight and the gentle embrace of Atsumu's arm thrown haphazardly over his chest, head buried in the crook of his neck.

Sweet, saccharine, achingly perfect, the start of a new day painted in pearly white and warm honey and whatever the color of sunshine is. 

He won't admit it out loud to anyone who asks, refuses to even acknowledge the occurrence of the moment, but Kiyoomi smiles then, not dumb and dopey or wide, but soft. Just the slight upward tug of lips into a quiet atmosphere, an appreciation for this syrupy domesticity that only he will be privy to.

Kiyoomi used to hate waking up. Because waking up meant facing reality head-on every day, saturating himself with the truth that his father is facing an inescapable death, that his life is under the control of a power higher at least than him, remembering all the many reasons he should be grateful and feeling them all lackluster in comparison to all his problems.

He likes waking up today, the ache in his chest not gone, but momentarily sated until it should rise up again like the ill-tempered beast it is. He likes waking up to this new version of reality where, when all else comes crashing down around him and sunshine is shrouded in rain, he knows Atsumu will still be sleeping on his chest, a restless angel even when in rest.

Kiyoomi likes the assuredness of Atsumu as his husband.

His arm is asleep where it loops around Atsumu, but he sets aside the thought of shaking it awake for a later time, instead drawing his husband closer. Kiyoomi buries his face in hair that's so soft it's literally impossible - it feels nice against his lips, his cheeks. And Atsumu smells like strawberries which only serves to fuel his bone-deep contentment.

"Mmmiii...tha tickles," Atsumu mumbles a butchered version of Kiyoomi's nickname, barely coherent while sleep still hangs over him.

Kiyoomi places a chaste kiss to his hairline that he knows Atsumu doesn't fully process as such (that's the only reason he has the confidence for such a blatantly affectionate display).

"Wake up," he says, devoid of ceremony. Atsumu bristles, sniffs slightly, but ultimately ends up smushing his face further against Kiyoomi's skin with a whiny groan of,

"Five more min'us."

Kiyoomi scowls despite knowing Atsumu won't see him.

"You lazy bitch, get up. I can't feel my arm," the turning point arrives like the Kool-Aid man smashing through the wall - now that Atsumu's actually (semi) awake, Kiyoomi must be far more picky about which affectionate gestures he lets slip.

He crushes a palm against Atsumu's face, an ill-conceived and ultimately fruitless attempt to push him away that echoes the futility of their first night together. The Miya prince whines against his hand and pushes back like the brat he is, unwilling to get up even though it's literally nine.

"I'll fuckin' bite ya, gimme snuggles."

"Do it, coward."

Ironic how Kiyoomi pulls his hand away the moment Atsumu's teeth clack together - maybe he's the coward.

The contemplation on his part doesn't last long though, because he quickly punches the heel of his palm against Atsumu's forehead, holding back an uncharacteristic giggle when his husband scrunches his nose with discontentment. It's oddly cute, in an annoying, bratty sort of way - Atsumu's entire personality summed up.

"Yer so mean ta me! I can't believe I like ya," Atsumu whines, high-pitched and petulant, more of a squeak than anything else.

"Correction, you love me." The syrupy feeling of _just saying it_ is as sweet as it is short-lived.

Atsumu blows a raspberry into his neck for his snide commentary, earning a smack from Kiyoomi who practically rolls himself off the side of the bed to escape any more of Atsumu's childish escapades.

The Miya prince allows himself to fall face-first into the mattress, an exasperated groan leaving his lips at the sudden absence of Kiyoomi's warmth. Kiyoomi almost (ALMOST) feels bad about it. Almost ( _almost_ ) goes back to scoop him up and cuddle him.

But then Atsumu's perching his chin in the edge of the bed, a genuine, beautiful grin spreading across his lips.

"Yeah, I love ya."

"Cheeseball," Kiyoomi scoffs in order to hold back a smile, knowing very well that he wouldn't change Atsumu or this moment for the world. Knowing that, if he were a little less of an emotionally stunted dick, he'd say it back without so much of a second thought. "Let's get breakfast." He decides for both of them.

Kiyoomi considers leaving him there because Atsumu seems less than inclined to move, muttering a muffled, "Just go without me. I don't got the energy." But, though he'll never say such a sin out loud, breakfast is much less interesting without Atsumu there.

Plus, he still feels raw and wants a hand to hold - Atsumu's specifically - even if he'd prefer everything we're normal. He wants assurance of the assuredness. Confirmation of the solidity of them. A credible link he can point to and say, 'this means you're mine', even if it's just the tangling of their fingers. So he insists,

"Get up," and tugs like a nagging child on his husband's wrist.

"No. Just leave me here ta die."

"Why are you like this?" Atsumu smushes his face to the side, big doe eyes blinking up at him through a curtain of unreasonably long lashes.

"Twin brother?"

"That's your excuse for everything," it really is. Atsumu uses it as a catch-all for his every character flaw, which Kiyoomi _knows_ can't be the truth of things because Atsumu always has everyone's attention one hundred percent of the time. Kiyoomi _knows_ that his attention-seeking nature is his fault and his alone.

"Because 'Samu _is_ the excuse fer everythin'," but he gets up anyway, flopping face-first off the bed supported only by Kiyoomi whose hands are on his shoulders.

"You're an idiot," Atsumu scrambles to his feet with renewed purpose, grinning borderline smugly as he wiggles the fingers of his left hand in front of Kiyoomi's face. Such an action showcases the ring molded in gold shimmering against tanned skin.

"Andja got a lifetime supply a' me," Kiyoomi's face pinches even more, if that's possible, lips pressing into a flat line as a now decidedly awake Atsumu practically skips past him. "Aren'tcha lucky, babe?"

Kiyoomi's heart doesn't just skip a beat, it dead ass trips over its own feet off the edge of the Grand Canyon - hearing Atsumu refer to him as 'babe' without any hint of joking or irony is genuinely something else. It makes a virtual hurricane of butterflies swirl up in his stomach, tickling insistently at his insides and forcing him to blink rapidly just to disperse the muddy affectionate words that gather on the tip of his tongue.

He doesn't overthink it when he reaches out to snatch Atsumu's hand in his own, lacing their fingers in an action so familiar yet still utterly delicious. A gesture so intimate that no one has ever allowed him to engage in before - not his family, not his friends, Komori let him do it once, but it ended two minutes later when his palm got sweaty.

But Atsumu, Atsumu could hold his hand indefinitely and Kiyoomi wouldn't have the heart to pull away, too sated in the wordless intimacy to want to.

Atsumu looks at him like he just got slapped - questioning - but Kiyoomi pushes ahead of him, dragging them along by where their fingers are tangled. He's not going to be caught dead with the blush that sits on his cheeks at the moment.

Atsumu is right. He's every one of Kiyoomi's firsts and that includes hand-holding (in a romantic context). Kiyoomi likes it. More than he should, anyway. Who actually _likes_ being perpetually in a state of 'oh my god he's so perfect I might pass out'?

Apparently, he does.

_\---_

"What is it with you and cereal?" He has it for almost every meal, he knows. Kiyoomi doesn't seem to understand his perspective, but Atsumu, a true intellectual, knows that the only true breakfast food is cereal loaded up with carbs and sugar.

He's lucky his metabolism is as much of a stubborn bitch as he is.

"Omi, Frosted Flakes slaps," he informs his husband through a mouthful of the aforementioned cereal. He still likes fruit loops better, but Kiyoomi has outlawed them after he ate them for three meals a day seven days in a row. Look, Atsumu knows he's unhealthy, but he's still hot so he'll be unhealthy until that changes.

"You need help. Seriously you're going to die," there's not even a hint of humor lacing his sharp tone.

"Yeah, maybe, but until then..." Atsumu takes a gratuitous bite of his corn flakes to emphasize his point.

"Idiot," is all his husband grunts out, gutturally, produced from the very back of his throat. The effect is only ruined by the lingering sting of fondness in inky eyes he has no way of hiding. Atsumu smirks, a rounded sense of satisfaction welling up in him to match.

"Someone's grumpy this mornin'." 

Silence. 

Atsumu softens a bit because he knows. Knows he's pricked his finger on the tip of an iceberg, rendering them with a fork in the road. A decision to make as to where to steer the conversation.

He knows they're avoiding the subject, he knows Kiyoomi doesn't want to talk about it, he knows sometimes that's not what you need. So he doesn't broach the concept. Because Kiyoomi deserves his time and patience. And even if the night before becomes a relic only they have memories of, Atsumu is okay with that.

So they don't talk about it, but Atsumu pokes Kiyoomi's foot with his own under the table and Kiyoomi pokes back, sending him a sharp, glare as though he can see the sympathy written in Atsumu's eyes and detests the very notion that he might be, ugh, _sad._

Kiyoomi doesn't seem to understand that he's allowed to be sad. He knows he's allowed to be angry and furious and annoyed and vengeful. But he doesn't seem to get the concept that, yes, he too is a human who is given permission to feel heartbreak just as much as anyone else.

Maybe he doesn't want to understand.

"Yeah, I am. Because I have to do the fucking Morozov interview now," Kiyoomi veers left and Atsumu follows him willingly. 

Atsumu's heart repairs itself in his chest to facilitate the sly smirk that perches itself on his lips. There's a grim sense of satisfaction that catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches his husband's disgruntled expression.

"Ah yes, the bet. The one ya lost," Atsumu leans on his chin on his knuckles, smug smile almost cat-like.

"Great. Rub it in. You're certainly helpful."

Okay, Atsumu feels a _little_ bad, feels a little grim at the thought of subjecting Kiyoomi to another Kiko interview incident. A burning sense of sympathy has him momentarily debilitated, smirk losing its hard edge and softening into a smile almost sad.

He doesn't care about the bet, not really, a horribly out of character response to a challenge. Atsumu is, in all aspects of his life, terribly, insatiably competitive. But he finds it hard to take satisfaction in winning, in getting out of something neither of them wants to do, when Kiyoomi is staring down at his food like it's the least appetizing thing he's ever been given.

And the words on his tongue that he should definitely think about before saying just kind of... fall out.

"I'll do it."

Kiyoomi looks at him with an expression formed of abject suspicion and borderline disbelief.

Okay, he doesn't regret this - he tells himself, swallowing as if to prove the point to his inner-psyche - but he's certainly not happy about it. He might've just signed up for the most torturous hour of his life, but it's definitely worth it if it makes Kiyoomi happy, right? Maybe if he doesn't have this weight on him, maybe if he can breathe for a moment-

"But I want something in return," he decides the instant he watches Kiyoomi's tongue dart out between spongy lips.

The look is back, the look that means Kiyoomi is trying to peel back the layers of this too-good-to-be-true offer and uncover the strings attached. To be fair, the last time they made a deal like this, it didn't exactly end in his favor.

There's a moment, just a beat of silence that engulfs them. Kiyoomi stares him down, almost unnervingly so, with such intensity that Atsumu thinks it might be burning a hole in his chest.

"Demon," he proclaims. "What do you want?"

Atsumu's good mood makes it's reprise with vigor, a grin spreading sweet and saccharine across his lips.

"Well, OmiOmi, since y'asked," Atsumu feels smug again, a fuzzy feeling welling up in his chest just at the thought of getting what he wants. He never realized how on top of the world he feels with Kiyoomi until his Omi wasn't there to hold up his end of their nonsensical relationship. "I wantcha ta kiss me."

Kiyoomi's eyebrows scrunch as if to say _that's it?_ Atsumu gets it. He would be suspicious too if his husband offered to do something utterly selfless in return for something as completely inane as a little kiss. But there are two factors to this equation: One, Atsumu just wants his husband to be happy, even if he'll frame it as literally anything else. Two, Atsumu really _really_ wants to kiss Kiyoomi. Really. 

"A kiss?"

"I mean, that's what I said. Doesn't matter how it happens, doesn't matter when. But I wantcha ta kiss me," Atsumu folds his legs criss-cross under him. "An' I wanna _real, on the lips kiss._ Nona that on the cheek bullshit or cordial ass hand kisses. A real one."

Atsumu feels the need to emphasize the _realness_ of his request because he knows Kiyoomi and the man is one hundred percent the kind of person to chicken out when it comes to romantic matters - caution seems to be his approach. As sensible as it is, Atsumu finds it horribly stifling.

"You do know that I haven't kissed... _anyone_ before?" Yes, Atsumu is well aware of that fact but, he'll be honest, he doesn't really care.

For one, he's kissed hundreds of people (men and women), and not all of them are gems. And for another, it doesn't matter how bad a kisser Kiyoomi Sakusa is because he's still going to love him just as much before and after - though he wouldn't dare to tell Kiyoomi that.

"Yeah. I take pride in that fact." 

"You shouldn't, it has nothing to do with you." 

Atsumu just raises his eyebrows and leans forward, putting on his 'why can't you just cooperate with me for once?' face. It's a hopeless, pointless attempt, but Atsumu will continue to try to wrestle his husband into submission, even if he knows it'll never work. 

"Omi, y'should really stop talkin' yerself out of a good deal. The point is that it doesn't matter. I just wantcha ta kiss me."

Kiyoomi seems to consider for a moment, swallowing shallowly as if his thoughts are too all-consuming for his body to even put half a thought into physical functions. 

"Like...with tongue?" Atsumu's throat dries up at the thought, simpering as he bites at his bottom lip. 

"If ya want," Kiyoomi looks an interesting combination of disgusted and embarrassed, the pretty blush perched high on his cheekbones ruining whatever effect his leer was supposed to have. Atsumu licks his lips, hopefully as subtly as possible. "Totally up ta ya." 

There's silence for a long stretch of time that could be seconds masquerading as hours, or hours under the guise of seconds. Atsumu wouldn't really know because time has a funny way of moving around Kiyoomi Sakusa, like it intends to drag out every second of his beauty, wring him dry of it, because he seems to have an unlimited supply of it. 

Eventually, it breaks, though. An amalgamation of suspicion an abject interest takes purchase in dark eyes, holding its rightful place beside hurricanes and stars. 

"Demon," Kiyoomi says again. And then: "Okay fine."

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yus finally my favorite thing to write, Flüff™. i felt like you guys (*cough* and me) deseved something a little lighter after all that heavy sad shit in the last chapters. i hope you likie. 
> 
> as per usual, thank you so much luvs and i hope you have a lovely day/night~! <3


	22. you skimp-ass-bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I toldja I wanted a real kiss."

"So formal babe," the grin on Atsumu's lips is reflected in his voice like light through a prism, coming out far more doting than even the adoration in his eyes can match.

They sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other in near-silence that Atsumu's compulsive need to talk at all times does a stellar job of filling.

Hazel eyes flick around the room bathed in shadow - no lights are on, the only semblance of visibility provided by the argent glow of bright moonlight through arching windows opened to humid, summertime air. He would complain, but man, does Kiyoomi look good in direct moonlight.

Silver beams makes his eyes glow, maybe shimmer is a more appropriate adjective, high cheekbones are highlighted, each upward curve of long lashes defined with its own gleaming edge. Nothing short of godly, he is a picture painted in brush strokes of smooth starlight and midnight black.

Atsumu thinks he could sit here for hours just staring and never get tired of the picture in front of him, if so ever Kiyoomi would let him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Atsumu rolls his eyes. OmiOmi, always so sensitive.

He cups his husbands face in his hands, squishing slightly just for his own enjoyment. Atsumu enjoys the contradiction of Kiyoomi somehow having soft squishy cheeks while also possessing cheekbones that could cut diamond.

"Oh Omi, my baby's always so sensitive," he coos and presses his palms toward each other, forcing Kiyoomi's lips into a pout that Atsumu wants to kiss off his pretty face. "All I'm sayin' is that this is totally not how I woulda done this."

In truth, he would've done at a time that would've had Kiyoomi the most off-guard, supplied Atsumu with the most fervent reaction. For a man who feeds off attention, getting it, in any form, is like food for the soul.

"Oh really? And how would you have done this?" Kiyoomi is, understandably, skeptical of his husband's hypothetical method. Look, if the positions were flipped, Atsumu would feel suspicious of himself too. "Is it horrible just like you?"

Atsumu grins again, childishly so, biting his lip as he thinks of the scenario that would have the most effect on his husband, do the most damage. Chaos to the extreme. That's his mantra.

"Well, I'd probably catch ya when yer doin' that skin care routine a' yers ta make yer face all spotless," he starts with, already watching the exasperation bloom on Kiyoomi's face like a flower in spring. The devil resides in the smile painting Atsumu's lips. "Then I'd mess it all up by kissin' ya super hard."

Atsumu pinches soft cheeks for emphasis, reveling in the way Kiyoomi chases his hands away with slaps only to unconsciously loop their fingers together. Atsumu loves this, loves him, adores every second of the attention he's receiving from his husband even if Kiyoomi will never be a sappy romantic.

Atsumu wouldn't want him to be, wouldn't want him to change even the things that infuriate him at times.

"So I was right. It is horrible," Kiyoomi manages once again to have Atsumu biting his bottom lip to halt the gleeful smile that wants to make its second (or third) reprise.

He feels it's perfectly justified, the feeling of overwhelming affection and borderline euphoria he feels. Thinks it's only natural that he should get to be irreproachably happy - after all, he's getting exactly what he wants, getting everything he'd hoped for. The knowledge that this moment belongs to him and him alone - that Kiyoomi is his and will be his - has honey pulsing through his veins and sunshine warming his chest even when the moon holds purchase over the sky. 

Atsumu gets this. He was selfless, he married someone he barely knew, pretended to be another fucking person, uprooted his life for his brother. He _gets_ this. Gets to be as selfish as he wants with this moment and this man.

"Y'know, if ya keep sayin' that, I'm gonna start ta think yer actually tryina say ya love me," he coos, leaning in to brush their noses together - Kiyoomi's expression is a poor imitation of disgust, outed by way he subtly leans into the soft contact.

"Stop thinking, you might hurt yourself,"he says too close to Atsumu's lips, so close that warm breath makes his skin tingle and Atsumu wants to lean in and complete the circuit that has electricity buzzing in his veins, pulsing under his skin and generating heat as energy does.

As an avid fuckboy, Atsumu can say with confidence that he's never been so desperately on edge for something as simple as a kiss before, never been turned into a pile of needy mush for the simple press of lips.

Atsumu is an inherently impatient person. As much as he'd like to say he can wait as long as it takes for Kiyoomi to decide to actually kiss him instead of just teasing around the subject, he would be lying and not very well.

"So are ya gonna kiss me or should I tell Alisa ya'll do the interview?" It's a hollow threat and they both know it.

Hollow or not though, it works like a charm.

Pressing forward quickly, Kiyoomi plants a chaste kiss square on his lips, soft, fleeting, sickly sweet, and utterly addicting. But it lasts less than seconds before the warmth is gone.   
A petulant pout so cute it could make Atsumu's heart explode just staring at is visible from Atsumu's up close and personal view of his face as Kiyoomi pulls away.

Against his will, a crimson blush burns his cheeks, searing affection scorching a hole in his chest. Such a simple kiss so unsullied by lust or corruption shouldn't have him feeling this way - dizzy, high, utterly content.

All his life, Atsumu has been a man of _more._  
He wants more, from everyone and everything, as much as he can take and then some. Like a black hole, he creates a vortex that sucks in everything around him to sustain an immature greed he never quite managed to kick to the curb. Insatiable.

But this leaves him full. He could walk away now and have his appetite appeased. Not that he wants to. He still intends to get the full benefit from the deal he made. Which is why, with a recklessly breathy voice that risks giving away the pounding of his heart in his chest, he says, or more like complains,

" _You skimp-ass-_ bitch!"

"You said you wanted a real, on the lips kiss," Kiyoomi says like he's reading from a terms and conditions page. "That was a kiss and it was on the lips. I don't see what the problem is here."

Oh, Kiyoomi has to know he's pushing Atsumu's buttons, is probably enjoying it too as the Miya prince figures. The evidence glows in eyes so dark and warm Atsumu would willingly drown in them. Though his lips that Atsumu now knows are soft and well cared for still hold the shape of a grimace.

"Omi, that's not a kiss. That what middle schoolers do ta start drama."

Kiyoomi pinches the skin of Atsumu's knuckle between his fingers in retaliation for the jest. Atsumu pinches back and sticks his tongue out, a childish way of one-upping his husband. It works finely enough, Kiyoomi wrinkling his eyebrows together at the loss of such an inane not-competition.

"I toldja I wanted a _real_ kiss."

"That _was_ a real kiss."

"That's like callin' a guinea pig a real pig," that earns him a harsh pinch on the cheek, meant not to be cute but to bruise.

Atsumu swats his hand away with his best rendition of a glare that's, in reality, just a pout, launching them both into a full on slap-war. For a few minutes that's all they do - no taking, just light, not-so-playful slaps and the occasional whine of "Omi ow!" before a retaliatory punch suffices as closure.

Atsumu worries it may carry on forever. However, just short of another pinch to his husband's muscular shoulder, Kiyoomi catches Atsumu's wrist. He presses his thumb to the center of Atsumu's palm, using it as an anchor as he slowly slides his hand up to encase Atsumu's own. This effectively ends their feud, not that Atsumu will let it go. 

"Okay, if that's not your definition of a real kiss," he challenges. "Then what is?"

Atsumu can't help the grin that breaks out across his lips, a gleeful infection. He's always up for a challenge, and when that challenge includes lip-locking with the most beautiful man on planet earth, it just makes the whole ordeal so much better.

"Omi, lemme show ya."

Atsumu, despite being so head over heels that he's rapidly falling off the edge of a cliff he'll never re-climb, manages to keep his cool long enough to avoid scrambling onto his husband's lap and sending them both careening off the bed.

He gets there though, his willpower holding just enough tensile strength to keep his movements slow and paced.

Kiyoomi's body is comfortingly warm as Atsumu straddles his lap, fitting them together like puzzle pieces - this kind of _closeness_ is new and most certainly welcome, Kiyoomi allowing him to loop gentle fingers through persistent curls. Kiyoomi just looks at him with an expression so flat Atsumu thinks he could be married to a robot.

The moment is so sweet and soft that Atsumu almost feels sad to break it with a kiss. But then he remembers that he's been waiting to do this since their honeymoon when those perfectly shaped, unimaginably soft lips had dripped with sweet watermelon juice. And the prospect of ruining this moment for the one that comes after seems so appealing it's almost irresistible.

With as gentle a grip as someone of Atsumu's level of grace can have, he cups Kiyoomi's face, allowing himself to feel the pleasant tingling of his fingertips as his husband's innate warmth seeps through his palms.

Beautiful. Kiyoomi Sakusa is so beautiful. Atsumu has half a mind to just sit here and stare and drink up the vision before him for as long as Kiyoomi will let him. It would be an evening well-spent, snap shots in time of his husband he'll hang on his mental wall and look at for warmth on sleepless nights.

They could just linger here, exist together...

But he finds that the impatience etched into him from birth wins out in the end.

Leaning forward, Atsumu kisses him, too soft.

Atsumu kisses him in a way that's reserved for Kiyoomi Sakusa and Kiyoomi Sakusa only. He would normally rush to teeth and tongue, open Kiyoomi's mouth with practiced ease and go straight for hot and heavy without any regard for the prologue, the build up.

But he wants to savor this moment and this feeling, the abnormal tickle, the suffocating affection, the subtle sweetness of silken lips. He's greedy for it all, and he'll breathe it in for as long as both of them can stand, kiss this man until both of them are breathless and not giving a single damn about it.

This time is different, every time after this will be different than any kiss Atsumu has shared with a pretty stranger or fleeting high school fling. He likes it this way. Slow.

He does like it this way, loves it this way, even, but he's also greedy for _more._ The wanting, the hunger is back, lacking only in its sharp edge. So he runs his tongue across the seam of Kiyoomi's lips, a gesture in-time with the drag of his thumb across Kiyoomi's jawline. The two combined coax pretty lips open.

Atsumu revels in the power trip of slipping past Kiyoomi's barriers, lets out a pleased hum at the back of his throat as Kiyoomi allows him to explore his mouth willingly. It's warm. So warm. And hot. And Atsumu get greedier.

The tipping point comes when Kiyoomi grows slightly bolder and licks a gentle stripe across the roof of his mouth. Atsumu's never been good at self-control, always taking more than he's allowed, gorging himself on what life gives him. This is no different.

His fingers catch on tight curls when he yanks back, hard enough that he hears a whine but not enough to hurt. Atsumu tips his head forward and allows himself to drown in how _divine_ it all is. That's really the only big word he has for what he's feeling. Light-headed, dizzy would also work, as he kisses Kiyoomi hard and fast and bruises his lips on his husband's.

It gets so much better when he remembers Kiyoomi is _his._

He needs air, but the lack of oxygen in his lungs feels completely secondary to the way he _burns._ Atsumu's body on fire as he licks into Kiyoomi's mouth and sucks on his bottom lip, he realizes he's sinking - rapidly, assuredly, inevitably, and he doesn't even care.

He pulls away out of necessity only when Kiyoomi whines high pitched at the back of his throat. Reluctantly, Atsumu separates their lips ever so slightly, parting them just enough take in desperately-needed air. Base instinct tells him not to stray farther than a few inches away from Kiyoomi's warmth, to hold on because moments as perfect as this have an annoying habit of _ending_.

Atsumu realizes then that there's nothing more beautiful and deliciously satisfying than the way Kiyoomi's eyes are syrupy, glazed over and hazy as he whispers,

"Why'd you stop?" And chases Atsumu's lips with unhurried movements.

Atsumu indulges him - or rather, indulges himself - adorning Kiyoomi's lips with languid kisses, each more molasses slow and lasting than the previous. The hand still tangled in his husband's hair now strokes gently instead of pulling, the other rests soft against the column of his throat.

"Oxygen, baby," Atsumu whispers between half-breaths. He's sure Kiyoomi can feel his self-satisfied simper rather than see it, but he pulls has just enough to give the man a full view. "Ya liked that, huh?"

As if suddenly woken from his trance. Kiyoomi twists his head then, blush burning the color of embarrassment rather than desire. Atsumu wants to kiss him silly, kiss him until both their lips are swollen and numb, kiss him until all Kiyoomi can feel is the imprint of Atsumu's mouth against his.

"C'mon. Y'can say it," coaxing rarely works with Kiyoomi, but Atsumu thinks he might just be pliable enough to play along this once. "I know ya like kissin' me."

Atsumu bites his lip in anticipation, knowing he's pushing the limits - he just got a mind-blowing make out session. What more is he allowed to ask for? Greedy greedy greedy.

Kiyoomi mumbles something of a confirmation, but Atsumu wants to _hear it._ Like the selfish bastard, arrogant he is, he wants his husband tell him just how much he enjoyed that - it has to be at least as much as Atsumu did. And because he's a fucking brat, Atsumu drags the pad of his thumb across Kiyoomi's spit-slicked bottom lip, extra encouragement.

"I...liked that. Kissing you."

Atsumu is sure that the grin spread across his lips can be characterized largely by the words 'dopey' and 'dorky' but he hardly has the mind to care - Kiyoomi looks too good held between his hands.

Fondness all-consuming, Atsumu presses another firm kiss to swollen lips, committing the candied tasted of them to the most vivid area of his memory.

"Oh my god. I love ya so much."  
  


\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the delay in updating omg! time totally got away from me T^T. that being said, i really hope you enjoyed this chapter. honestly it was so satisfying to finally write them kissing (like they deserve to-). 
> 
> (also sorry for any gramatical or spelling errors. i wrote this on my phone and apperently autocorrect has no problem policing my texts but can't be bothered to do the same for my stories.)
> 
> as always, thank you for your support and have a lovely day/night~!


	23. love is a human right - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just because they choose an unnatural way of life...eh, does not mean they should be punished for it."

"Avoid actually saying the word 'gay'," is something Alisa has said more than five times in the span of fifteen minutes - by now the avoidance of such a topic is natural for him when in regards to anything concerning the public eye. But he listens to her tell him one more time just for good measure with a smile on his face.

"If it comes up, please, _please,_ don't snap. I _seriously_ know what he sounds like when he talks but I'm pretty sure half of it is because he thinks gay people are aliens or something," Alisa coaching him about what to say to her boss is an interesting experience, mainly because he's used to the Alisa that spams him with bullshit memes. Not the one who's wearing a headset and a pantsuit.

Normally, it would be Kiko giving him this cursory debrief, but Alisa requested to see him, and hell if Atsumu wasn't going to take the chance to see his friend (whom he's been completely cut off from for the past few weeks). 

Plus, he and Kiko aren't on the best of terms. She still thinks he's an irresponsible man child. (She's not exactly wrong, but they butt heads more than she and Kiyoomi do, so Atsumu is partially to blame for their fractured relationship.)

"Oh, I'm extraterrestrial, nice," Atsumu's been told he uses humor as a coverup for stress, but he's also been told humor is the best antidote for stress - when in doubt, choose the option that most perfectly locks into your pre-chosen beliefs.

Alisa sends him a humorless look, almost fearful.

"Osamu, I'm serious about this," she whispers harshly into the darkness of the dressing room as a lingering stylist stays behind to worry at out-of-place hairs. "This could go _really_ badly, for all three of us. Your reputation isn't the only thing that's at stake here."

Atsumu sighs. He _knows._ But he also knows that, if Morozov is stupid and fires her, Atsumu gladly employ her for...something. He doesn't actually know what Alisa's job entails, but he's sure they have _something_ for her to do. Nevertheless, he stands to give her his most apologetic smile.

"I know, I'm sorry. Butcha don't gotta worry. It'll go great," he lies through his teeth, hoping his fake smile is washed-out enough by the harsh lighting to come across as genuine. He pats her on the shoulders. "Worst case scenario, I get totally dunked on an' we move on like adults."

Alisa raises both eyebrows because they both know that, no, if something bad happens, it will absolutely _not_ be handled in a mature adult way. But sometimes a cursory lie is better than delving into complicated truths five minutes before one of the most... _interesting_ , thus far, interviews of his life.

Alisa sighs, heavy and drawn, but at the very least, slightly more relaxed than she had been. Atsumu smiles at the fact - look, if he can't charm people into forgetting he's a massive screw-up, then really, he's not that useful for anything.

"Alright. Just...there'll be a third party facilitator, so don't ask any questions unless you have to, and seriously, do _not_ bring up your marriage, or Kiyoomi's coronation- Actually, just don't talk about your husband at all."

Alisa waves a dismissive hand as if flicking away the prospect entirely - that's probably a good idea if Atusmu's being honest. But not for any of the reasons she's thinking. Mainly because Atsumu's witty insults dissolve into soft praises if Kiyoomi isn't around to hear them, and there's no way in the fiery depths of hell that Atsumu will go on national television doting about his husband.

"I would say good luck, but I guess luck really has nothing to do with it," Alisa says, almost somber, when the last stylist makes his exit, silently and swiftly - honestly, he's probably paid for discretion as much as he is styling Atsumu's hair.

Atsumu shouldn't jest because this is absolutely no laughing matter, but the script of his personality is written out in stunning, unabiding detail, so he follows it to the T.

"Ya don't have ta make it sound like I'm goin' off ta war," what would really make this moment special is if he could steal a 'wish me luck' kiss from his husband and watch that petulant pout materialize as he tries to pretend he didn't enjoy it.

Alisa's grumble drops him back to the realm of reality.

"Yeah, well, you might as well be," she runs a hand through platinum blonde hair, ruffling it into perfect waves. "Off the record, talking to President Morozov is like talking to a heavily opinionated brick wall who has an obsession with cheesecake." She says like any of their conversations are ever on the record.

"Oh, then this'll be great!" Atsumu stands as Alisa checks her wristwatch for the fourth time successively in the past five minutes. "I have lotsa experience with that. Talkin' ta Omi's like talkin' to a brick wall who doesn't like anythin'. At least we'll bond over dairy-based desserts."

Alisa hardly looks charmed, but shakes away the stress regardless, patting him on the back as she ushers him to the door that will lead them to the interview.

Look, Atsumu isn't scared of this, he isn't. But he's sure as hell not excited for it. Not when he doesn't have his safety-husband sitting right next to him, no hand to squeeze the circulation from when he gets too close to losing control.

He tells himself he'll make do, but really it's all just up to chance, like a card game where the odds are random as to what you get. This could either go smoothly enough to be considered boring or badly enough to ruin him. Either way a lose-lose situation for a man with little patience and a fuse so short it's not even measurable. 

_Oh well_ , is his best solution to the problem at hand. He'll just have to go with the flow, wing it if you will. Which shouldn't be that hard. He did it with Kiyoomi and that turned out just fine. 

This can't be all that much different, right?

_\---_

President Vladimir Morozov is a man you try not to look directly in the eye.

Sterling silver irises match salt and pepper hair, a strong jawline and a thick brow ridge to boot make him look as threatening as he cold. Atsumu purses his lips, a way of erasing the clear display of disgruntlement that intends on sneaking its way across his features.

"Prince Osamu, President Morozov, it is lovely to have two very familiar faces with us," the interviewer - a woman with lipstick redder than blood and a British accent that would have frat boys dropping like flies - talks to them like a talk show host even though this doesn't even remotely resemble that kind of interview.

The attempt at geniality, while much appreciated, merely serves to further untangle his nerves already frayed at the edges. In his seat facing the cameras, Atsumu puts on his best smile - he got used to the name Osamu as his own a long time ago.

There's still a lag, still a millisecond delay where his brain has to catch up with his reality and trips over itself in the process. But he manages it fine, filling in for the temporary gap with his usual charming grin.

"So, I know we usually get into the heavy stuff right away, but why don't we start with something a little less...deep?" Atsumu has to remember not to look at the cameras, Alisa drilled that into his head nicely during their fifteen-minute crash course on how to interact with a president.

"How have things been going?" Behind the cameras, the interviewer crosses her legs, smiling sweetly. "What is married life like?"

The conversation immediately takes a turn for the worse as it completely veers off the path Alisa had so clearly laid out for him. With utter defiance, it breaks the two cardinal rules of conversing with a homophobe: don't talk about being gay, don't talk about your gay husband being gay with your gay self.

Atsumu sucks in a breath that he hopes isn't as obvious as it feels.

"Uh, it's good," he attempts vague but it sounds shady - he never really found a good balance. "Way more domestic than I'd ever thought I'd be interested in, but I'm enjoyin' it."

At least that's not a lie - frail things that interviews so often seem to be made up of. He does enjoy the domesticity of _them,_ him and Kiyoomi. Enjoys waking up to strong arms wrapped around him, to the warmth of another person and the assurance of another morning just like it, beautiful in the minute differences that can be found if he bothers to look for them.

Atsumu likes eating breakfast with Kiyoomi, even if all they do is shallowly argue about stupid stuff or sit in sleepy silence. He likes going about daily business with Kiyoomi - which, for him, is just pestering his husband while the poor Sakusa prince tries in vain to finish paperwork. Atsumu would never let something so boring stand.

So no, he's not lying for once, and it feels really good.

The good feeling, the warm fuzzies that populate his chest in bulk, are suddenly dashed and dismantled. Killed off where they stand in a brutal massacre.

"That's lovely," the subject is discarded quickly as she seems to decide it's high time they kick things up a notch. "And how would you say you and Prince Kiyoomi are holding up against people who...might not agree with your way of life?"

The urge to clap back wells up with fury in his chest, the words 'gay' and 'super fucking homosexual' stain the tip of his tongue like watercolor paints on the rough surface of a blank canvas. He swallows them down, dissolving their colors with water until they're nothing but remnants.

"Uh...well, we haven't experienced any...problems yet, so I'm really quite thankful for that. I know business gets tricky sometimes under the circumstances," his mother likes to call this the meringue of conversation - sweet to the ears of viewers who won't think twice, but ultimately substance-less. It's a skill, he's learned.

Regardless the interviewer nods as if what he's just said is serious business and not a lame cover-up to convince himself and everyone around him he's not about to explode.

"That's good, that's very good," she says shallowly, clearly having hoped for something a little more dramatic to create interest, maybe conflict. A malicious part of Atsumu gets a grim sense of satisfaction from veering off the path she so obviously wanted him to take. He's always been a brat like that. "And President Morozov, while we're on the subject, there's been talk that you're planning on pushing to legalize gay and lesbian marriage. Is this true?" 

President Morozov smiles and it's strained, like a robot trying to mimic human emotion. Tight, plastic, unnatural. 

"Uh...yes, I have..." his Russian accent is thick, thicker than Atsumu's. While he searches for the words he wants to say, his body stills as if ceasing all non-essential functions. "Been trying to... _instate,_ a new way of doing things in my country. I think that... all people should be allowed to marry." And then he adds, "Even if it is a man to a man." 

Atsumu bites his tongue - not a natural gesture but a required one. _Dismiss it as a language barrier,_ his brain screams. _Let it be,_ a flutter of his eyes to calm himself. 

"Love...is a human right," he says slowly. Atsumu almost combusts. 

That's total bullshit coming from a man who, by all accounts, doesn't even believe you qualify as a human being if you don't fit the mold a heteronormative society has carved out for you.

The interviewer smiles, Atsumu mimics her because there's not much else to do when he's bound by the restraints of being the perfect copy of his brother everyone thinks he is. Osamu would smile. Osamu would be polite. Osamu would fold his hands in his lap and wait to hear the rest. 

Atsumu would outburst and scream and throw a tantrum at the injustice, single-handedly fight any titans the world swears by. 

But he's Osamu right now. 

"Well said, well said," the interviewer commends. Like the good public figure he is, Atsumu nods with her words. "What kind of impact do you think this will have when it comes to not just Russian politics, but global politics as a whole. Do you hope for Russia to, sort of, lead by example?" 

"Yes. Yes...I would like to think that Russia, uh, can be a...model for the world to follow. I hope that, uh, we can lead the rest of the world, how you would say, _spearhead_ this effort," President Morozov says like most of the major players in global politics haven't already hopped on that bandwagon. "A message of equality is an important thing to have as our...foremost issue." 

He nods with finality. Atsumu inhales the burn that sinks itself bone deep in his sternum. 

"Prince Osamu, what do you think about this? A lot of folks in the international community see you and your husband as...kind of, the poster children for this movement to bring the LGBTQ+ community and the monarchy together. What are your thoughts on that?" 

"I think that LGBTQ+ acceptance among the royal community an' really the global community as a whole is somethin' that's long overdue," Atsumu nods and leans on the edge of his chair, allowing himself this one characteristic gesture. Osamu always maintains perfect posture. Atsumu does not. This is a difference, a small one he hopes no one will notice. "Ideally, I'd hope we could get to a place where there's representation in all forms of government."

"And do you think we're very far from that goal? What struggles have you encountered, or do you think you will encounter, in reaching it?"

"Well, like I said, I've been lucky enough not ta have face a lotta challenges regarding my sexuality, but um, I would say it's harder ta go in feelin' like ya got peoples' respect," he speaks indirectly to Mozorov next to him - a form of self-therapy. 

If you can't drag the object of your resentment through the dirt then the second-best option is to be blatantly passive-aggressive, Atsumu has learned.

"Completely understandable. And what about you President? What is your personal stance on the LGBTQ+ community becoming a larger part of global politics beyond citizens and domestic policy?"

Atsumu stills, halting all movement to channel the energy into awaiting Morozov's answer.

_'Faggots have no place in the justice system.'_

"I think we should start making...the transition toward inclusion," oh how easily the world forgets. Maybe Atsumu's holding a grudge - his mother always said that anger doesn't solve problems, but anger wasn't created as a solution, rather as a byproduct of circumstance. "In all branches of the government, in all...governmental systems around the world." 

Atsumu's not mad. That's a lie. 

Atsumu wants to scream - _you fucking liar -_ but instead, he chisels himself out of marble and sits a statue, taking great care around the curve of his lips, making sure it reflects a picture of genuine interest and agreement rather than the slimy feeling he gets from merely being in the same space as this man. 

Forgive and forget is a stupid, useless mantra because feelings are forever and forgiveness is purely situational. Anyone saying otherwise is lying.

Atsumu's eyes flick to the clock on the wall opposite to him, a way of subtly distracting himself from the conversation at hand - if not for his sanity, then for everyone else's.

_Alright, just a little over twenty minutes left. This is going to be fine._

At least that's what he says in the seconds proceeding a statement by the _President of Russia_ that leaves his stomach in knots and his crystalline mask in fractures.

There's no build-up, not dramatic music like in TV shows to let you know something is coming. Which is why Atsumu has no chance to react, no split second to fix his facial features into a perfect vision of neutrality before Morozov says,

"Just because they choose an unnatural way of life...eh, does not mean they should be punished for it." 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I KNOW IT'S BEEN EIGHT DAYS. i'm so sorry ಥωಥ. but it's okay because i have a really good excuse: 
> 
> actually i don't. i just totally didn't know how to write this chapter so i had to watch a bunch of interviews and none of them had what i wanted so i gave the hell up on making it realistic after wasting all this time trying to imitate the real world. you have my deepest and sincerest apologies for making you wait. 
> 
> on another note, thank you so much for sticking around luvs! as always, have a lovely day/night~! <3


	24. love is a human right - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Congrats on being the fastest person to ever get turned into a meme."

_"Just because they choose an unnatural way of life...eh, does not mean they should be punished for it."_

Kiyoomi would be lying if he said he didn't find the comment incendiary, but he would also be lying if he said the face Atsumu is making isn't a perfect antidote to his anger. 

Hazel eyes are widened comically in abject horror, but the rest of his face is a static reflection of indifference. Atsumu doesn't look at the Russian president sitting next to him. Instead, he's looking straight into the camera as if he can see Kiyoomi through it. Kiyoomi can hear the words on his tongue without them even needing to be spoken - _OmiOmi are ya seein' this shit?_

Yeah, he is, but he's having a very contrary reaction to his husband, who looks like he's about to pass out on national television. 

Kiyoomi's never laughed so hard in his life. He swears he's not a bad person (he doesn't think, at least) and he's certainly not trying to be a bad husband, but there are some times in life when you've just got to laugh at the fact that _thank fucking god that's not me._

Okay yeah, he's a bad person. And a bad husband. But within the confines of a velvety waiting room practically drowned in sound-dampening materials, he feels it's perfectly justified for him to cackle like a psychopath. Plus, Atsumu would be doing the exact same thing, so he's comforted in knowing he's not the only asshole in this relationship. 

Kiyoomi is sprawled on the couch, hands holding his sides that ache as he wipes tears from his eyes that materialize as quickly as he swipes them away. His phone is long forgotten on the glass coffee table as he watches his husband physically manage to not blink for a solid minute and a half. 

Kiyoomi waits for Atsumu to explode - of course, he's rooting for Atsumu and all, being the good-ass husband he is, but he's also under no illusion that either of the Miya twins have a concerted grip over their tempers when it comes to homophobic assholes. If he's being completely honest, half of him hopes Atsumu goes for the 'fuck it' approach and take that bastard president down the notch he deserves. 

But he also knows that such a desire is selfish. Because despite living in a world on the precipice of progression, the backlash would be deadly, Atsumu and his reputation left in shambles. For how supportive the general public can be, they can also be surprisingly ruthless. 

Kiyoomi's often found that, despite studying differential equations and high-level physics, simple human behavior is the most complicated of all sciences. Unpredictable, unmappable, and even, if by some feat of the imagination you could manage to distill it into an equation, it would be too complex and horribly entangled to sort out.

You can see why Kiyoomi's never been great at making friends. 

Atsumu doesn't explode, as it turns out - the unpredictability of human behavior strikes once again, likely taking every viewer or politician even remotely familiar with the Miya twins by surprise. Instead, he takes a deep breath in (deep enough to be blatantly visible and audible through the mic hidden behind his collar). 

It takes what feels like an eternity, but eventually ( _eventually_ ), Atsumu manages to clear his throat - actually, he has to do it a few times just to get his throat rehydrated enough to speak, but like the champ he is, he nods. 

"Uh," he chokes on the first word. When he manages to speak again, his voice is rough - it would be cute if Kiyoomi didn't know his husband was three seconds away from breaking something. "Well, as someone who lives that...uh, _unnatural_ way of life, I gotta say it don't feel all that wrong."

Kiyoomi's laughter has died on his tongue as he takes in a deep breath of air that truly does nothing but saturate him with the urge to scream - Kiko is going to rain _hell_ down on him for this. Okay, so he didn't explode, but it can be argued that being blatantly passive-aggressive to the president of an entire, very _large,_ country, is a bullshit move that only a seventh-grader would deem acceptable. 

Kiyoomi swallows as he watches Atsumu bite his lip in _that way_ \- the way that tells you he has so much more to say but is making an active effort to keep himself under control. Such an expression appears during press conferences, "family dinners" with the Sakusa's, and really any time he and Kiko are in the same room. 

The bob of his husband's Adam's apple gives away how he swallows his thoughts, replacing them with words that are soft on the ears of sensitive viewers. 

"But, uh, I think we can all appreciate the sentiment...that no one should be punished for who they love," Atsumu finishes finally, not that his face even a little bit reflects the words falling from his lips. He could be lip-syncing to a pre-recorded track with how uncharacteristically flat his expression is. The only hint of emotion that plays across his face sculpted from aureate marble is in hazel eyes. 

But it's not anger nor sadness nor any kind of emotion one would expect. Rather, it's longing. 

A longing to escape, a longing to be done, for this to be over. Kiyoomi feels it bone-deep. They say that if you do what you love you'll never work a day in your life. But what if you do something that makes you feel like your brain is being turned to ash to the point where you'd cut out your own kidney just to feel something? 

It's interview after press conference after public statement, a never-ending cycle of meaningless events that rob you of your energy and end up ultimately forgotten by the people who claim they mean everything in the moment. And all you can really do is live another day and try to forget and try not to let the shame drag you down with it- At least until the next interview, the next press conference, the next public statement.

Then you pull yourself up and dust off your metaphorical jacket and you pretend like you're the perfect human being people expect you to be.

But there's not much to be done when your battery runs out. When the well of lies and cover-ups runs dry, all you can do is wait and hope that you don't crack before you're out of the spotlight. Kiyoomi knows the feeling well. 

If he was there next to Atsumu, he would hold his husband's hand - maybe half in protest ( _"We don't give a fuck how_ natural _you think we are."_ ), but mostly just to get Atsumu's expression back to that gentle display of jovial joy as is his usual. 

Instead, Kiyoomi watches as his husband sits on camera and steels his jaw, pressing full lips into a flat line as he cuts himself off from saying anything more than he should. 

The interviewer, if only to keep the peace for the remaining fifteen minutes of the interview, breezes past the disturbance with practiced grace - Kiyoomi doesn't often like scripts, but there are times few and far between when they are a vital resource not to be taken for granted. 

Atsumu's expression stays flat for the rest of the interview. He doesn't smile anymore. He doesn't even speak unless it's absolutely required. He only nods, blinking slowly as if his mind is being held hostage in a moment far away from the present. 

To untrained eyes, his adjustments - the stilling of his hands where they had previously fiddled in his lap, the constant shifting of his position, the occasional absent preening - are unnoticeable. But Kiyoomi feels unsettled as he watches Atsumu turn into a lifeless statue where he sits. Atsumu Miya, whatever else one can say about him, is anything but lifeless. 

If there's anything unnatural about this situation, it's not Atsumu's sexuality or president Morozov's comments or even the disembodied voice of the interviewer off-camera. It's the stagnance of Atsumu, a man perpetually moving, that is the farthest thing from _natural_ there is to be had. 

\---

"Omi, literally kill me," when Atsumu walks into the viewing room, he looks like he sold his soul on the black market for pocket money. "That was the fuckin' worst! I'm never talkin' ta anyone but you an' Alisa an' 'Samu ever again." He declares as soon as the door shuts behind him. Something in Kiyoomi's chest tickles at the knowledge that he's at the top of that short list of people. 

Kiyoomi snorts because he's an _amazing_ husband. 

"The face you made, it's all over Twitter. Congrats on being the fastest person to ever get turned into a meme," Atsumu regards him with a look so sharp it could cut diamond, softened only by the way he pushes out his plush bottom lip. 

"That's it? Seriously? That's all ya got fer me? I just went through the grossest interview a' my entire fuckin' life an' all ya got is, 'Oh congratulations yer a meme'. Omi what the fuck?" Atsumu is kicking his whininess up as high as it will go, clearly taking advantage of the fact that Kiyoomi can't say anything about it - though he's loathe to admit it, Atsumu took a bullet for him. 

He nearly imploded when Kiori merely _asked_ about his father, Kiyoomi might just explode sight on scene when faced with such direct, unshrouded homophobia. 

"'When your grandma makes a racist joke.' 'Samu in this interview looks like me at every family gathering.' 'That moment when you realize you're failing adulthood'," Kiyoomi quotes like the asshole he is, though he swings his arm over the back of the couch he's sitting on as he absently scrolls through Twitter - it's an open invitation. 

Atsumu takes it despite grumbling under his breath - _jerk, OmiOmi always so mean ta me_ \- as he flops down and sinks against his husband's body. Atsumu is warm against his side, fitting perfectly like a puzzle piece locking into place as Kiyoomi drapes his arm around broad shoulders. He knows they should probably leave before they get viciously mauled by the press, but the moment is undeniably sating - they could stay here forever and just exist together. 

Sometimes Kiyoomi thinks it would be nice to be normal. If there is a higher power out there, it knows he's thought about such a scenario every day of his life. 

Sometimes he imagines falling in love with Atsumu like a normal person - first and second and third dates to coffee shops and movie theaters, having a normal job that he likes (though he has no idea what that would be because interests outside of the throne have never been presented as credible options before), going home to an apartment instead of a castle with a very economical _one_ living room. Atsumu could play volleyball. Kiyoomi could spend his nights doing whatever the hell he wants instead of stressing over public image and world events. 

They could be normal. Happy and normal.

But they're not. And they never will be. So there's really no point in thinking about it at all. 

Kiyoomi defenestrates any and all thoughts of a non-royal life, allowing them to bleed out on the pavement below. It's pointless. Just like thinking about a world without his dad's cancer is pointless. Thinking about a world where he could marry Atsumu genuinely is pointless. Thinking about any world other than the one they live in is pointless because it'll never exist. 

"Whatcha lookin' at?" Atsumu coos, bringing him back to the moment he has - an entirely non-objectionable one, if he does say so himself. How could it be with the way Atsumu smushes his cheek against Kiyoomi's delt stares wide-eyed at his husband's phone as if it's the most amazing thing he's ever seen before?

Atsumu's ability to flip from the devil incarnate to an innocent being to be protected at the drop of a dime is uncanny. Kiyoomi makes a mental note to ask about it later. 

"People. Supporting you. I mean, they still think you're your brother, but the sentiment is there," Kiyoomi drops his head to Atsumu's, absently rubbing his cheek against the soft strands of his husband's hair. Kiyoomi loves Atsumu's hair - can you blame him? It's softer than clouds and always smells like strawberries. It's the second-best thing about him other than his abs. "See? People love you." 

"I don't care if people love me." 

Kiyoomi snorts. 

"Liar." 

"Nah, it's the truth," Atsumu perches his chin on his husband's shoulder and grins sloppily, slightly askew with how worn out he is. And Kiyoomi gets the feeling that he's either about to say something really stupid or really cheesy. Likely a combination of both. "I only that _you_ love me." 

Kiyoomi may not have good instincts when it comes to the general public, but with Atsumu Miya he could write a book.

Kiyoomi pushes his palm against Atsumu's face with a barely restrained giggle - he's always hated his laugh. Comprised ninety percent of snorts and hiccups rather than actual laughter, it's a sound he's decided long ago would never be heard by anyone but himself. He can only silently hope that Atsumu doesn't manage to worm his way into being another exception to one of Kiyoomi's many hard-set rules.

He shakes his head even though (because Atsumu and all his stupidity have retrained Kiyoomi's brain) his heart is on the edge of exploding in his chest from the affection overfilling it like a glass overflowing with water.

"You're so cheesy. I don't know how you ever got anyone to date you before me." 

"See that's the trick, babe. I never had ta open my mouth before ya." 

"Color me jealous of your exes," Kiyoomi has to bite his lip, a smile-suppressant, as he slips his phone into his pocket. 

He stands before Atsumu's brain fully comprehends the slight, leaving his husband to scramble over the back of the couch and nearly trip over himself as it finally clicks into place. 

"Omi?!" 

Atsumu chases after him like a lost puppy dog as they make their way to the back exit (which has no doubt already been discovered by the paparazzi). 

"I dunno why I love ya. Yer the worst human being alive," Kiyoomi stops at the doorway as Atsumu drapes himself across his back. He wouldn't deign to admit that the affection has his heart tripping over itself. 

The last time they were in a situation like this, Kiyoomi distinctly remembers the achy longing for it all to be _real,_ not just for show. Now that it finally is, he must admit that his heart doesn't quite know what to do with itself seeing as the tickle in his chest doesn't disappoint. Maybe he shouldn't be so shocked. Atsumu never disappoints, only surprises. 

"You love me because I'm hot and I put up with your bullshit." 

"Mhm, ya're very hot Omi," of course that's what he'd focus on. Atsumu snakes his arms around his husband's waist and squeezes Kiyoomi's chest in his hands, kneading the developed muscle. "Nice titties too-" 

If Kiyoomi's eyes could roll any farther back in his skull, he'd be getting an up-close and personal view of his brain right about now.

"I should've ratted you out when I had the chance." 

They both know he never would've - in fact, the only time it had ever even occurred as a genuine possibility was when he was standing on the altar across from this not-Osamu Miya twin. Even just standing in their moonlit bedroom with Atsumu Miya in front of him, he'd given up all hope of starting over. 

Maybe it was because hazel eyes looked too pretty illuminated with remnants of starlight. Or maybe it was simply that he didn't have the energy or willpower to hit the reset button just yet. Either way, it was a fatal, beautiful mistake on his part. 

Atsumu's arms are still around his waist when they step into midday heat, the sun brightly outshone by the flashing of cameras. Kiyoomi can't help the sigh that escapes him, the weariness that fills him even though he did nothing but watch the interview unravel. And it's uncomfortable - the eyes on them, the exposure, the feeling of being constantly judged and reevaluated. 

But Atsumu's head is on his shoulder, Atsumu's soft hair is ticking the nape of his neck, and even when the Miya prince uncoils himself from Kiyoomi's body, he keeps his hand slotted with Kiyoomi's as they push through the crowd of nameless face hidden by cameras that glare at them - a silent guide despite the chaos. 

And he thinks that, yeah, President Vladimir Morozov may be homophobic and intolerant and _wrong,_ but if nothing else, he's right about one thing: 

Love is a human right. And despite his every attempt to be above such nonsense, Kiyoomi is still only a human. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi luvs! it's me! i'm back! not dead! anyway, i know these past few chapters have been slower out the gate so i'm sorry about that >.< BUT, we're in for a few chapters of fluff after this and some Sunaosa, so i'm excited about that. i know they haven't entered this story like...at all...so i'm preparing to explore that uwu. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed! thanks so much for sticking with me, and as always, have a lovely day/night~!


	25. i want a divorce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Message not delivered]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright y'all, i know the wait was long again. to make up for it, i expended all my mental energy writing 5.4k of this. please accept my humble offering.

"'Samu, oh, I missed my babies!"

Atsumu hates that he stiffens when his mother draws them both into a tight hug. It's been a while since she could fit both of them within the confines of her arms, by age fifteen they had outgrown her in height and weight, and by now they were virtual giants compared to her five-foot-five frame and willowy shape.

She still hugs them all the same, looping her arms around their shoulders as best she can and forcing them to squish together out of courtesy. Judging by the way she hugs them like she hasn't seen them in a year, Osamu hasn't been around the house much either.

Atsumu supposes it's for the best, all things considered. But he still aches a little. In all the months he's been away, he never once thought about visiting home until Osamu insisted he come back because 'Ma started bawlin' over FaceTime an' I didn't know what ta do'. At the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn't have so easily traded his old life for his new one. Even if his new one includes Kiyoomi Sakusa.

When his mother steps back, she examines them both with a fond smile as if they'd never left, hands folded in front of her. A warm wave of familiarity crashes over him, a reminder of the home he'd left behind - the smile lines near his mother's eyes, the slight respectful nod of his father. He's never been one for affection, not like Atsumu. Osamu took after him more as a child, but since meeting Sunarin, he'd evened out from cold to soft.

"Darlin' go hug yer sons," their mother prompts even though all three of them know that will never happen - never has before.

He doesn't hug them, instead extending a genial hand, the gesture accompanied by the slight crease near the corners of gunmetal gray eyes. That's the closest to a smile you'll get from the man, Atsumu feels honored that it's for them.

Osamu is the first to step in, eyes flitting around curiously at the lack of waitstaff flooding them.

"Ma'd ya clear everyone out?"

"I thought ya boys deserved ta come home ta somethin' simple," she waves a dismissive hand and Atsumu feels guilt curl in his gut. Anything but simple, that's what they are. Would she still feel the same way if she knew? "Everythin's been so complicated and hard lately. I thought comin' back home should be a relaxin' experience."

Oh hell, if only she knew how complicated things really were.

Atsumu smiles anyway, the thought is much appreciated. But he feels like a criminal hiding in plain sight, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat as guilt squeezes around his lungs and sucks the breathable air from the room.

 _It's just for a couple hours,_ he reminds himself uselessly.

They follow their parents to the first-floor dining room. It's set up like they're welcoming a god into their home, gold and silver and flowers, and Atsumu wonders where simplicity is supposed to sit among all the shimmer. He doesn't mind. It wouldn't really feel like home if it wasn't at least a little bit unnecessarily gaudy.

It hadn't been an easy decision to come to - whether to be themselves and pretend to know what's going on in the other's life, or be each other like they've been doing for the past two months - but eventually, Osamu brought up the fact that their parents are way too intimately knowledgeable of Sunarin for the first to work.

So he'll just have to be Osamu for an hour and a half. How hard can that be? He did it on national television. Multiple times. A ninety-minute dinner should pale in comparison. Right?

Wrong.

Have you ever tried _literally being_ your sibling in front of your _parents_? The only thing they have going for them is an identical set of genes, beyond that, both boys are forced to go the extra mile just to be convincing - overacting, maybe, but it's better than being exposed over what is supposed to be a joyous family dinner.

Osamu thickens his accent and raises his voice a full decibel to match Atsumu's usual obnoxiousness (he should find it insulting, but against all his pride, it matches nearly to the T). Atsumu talks less and bites his tongue to hold back witty commentary - he should get a fucking medal for this performance.

When they sit down across from their parents, Atsumu holds his shoulders up ruler-straight despite the burning urge to slump forward in his seat. Almost in tandem, Osamu flops forward sloppily in his seat - Atsumu wants to scowl and tell him he's overdoing it, but Osamu wouldn't do that, so he bites his tongue and uses the pain as a distraction from his rage.

Even more insulting is that his parents _buy it._

"So tell me, what's goin' on with my boys lately?" Their mother's always been the kind, talkative one, their father the one that judges you silently from where he sits across from you. Atsumu gets the worst of it - Osamu always sits on the left. His father always sits on the right. You can see where the problem arises. "There must be somethin' excitin' between the two of ya. 'Samu," his mother's eyes snap to him. "How's Kiyoomi-Kun doin'?"

Atsumu swallows. He's Osamu. He's polite and refined and he knows the difference between all the silverware because he actually paid attention in etiquette training. He's got this.

"O- Kiyoomi is doing well," he starts with cutting himself off before he can - most un-Osamu-ly - call his husband 'Omi'.

"How is he dealing with his father? I heard it's really bad. Really gotta feel fer the poor kid," his mother laments genuinely as the first course of their meal arrives. Atsumu doesn't feel hungry. Instead, he feels sick to his stomach, like if he's forced to take a single bite of the probably really good Gazpacho that sits in front of him. "What is he? Early twenties? An' he's already gonna take responsibility fer an entire country."

"Uh, yeah, he's actually dealin' with it really well," Atsumu stirs _a_ spoon around in the watery liquid (he doesn't know _which_ spoon because there are like, three of them, but he figures it serves roughly the same purpose). "He's a bit closed off sometimes, but we talk about it."

A blatant lie. Late nights of cuddling instead of speaking, holding hands instead of saying words, come to mind. They talk without having to, in the gentle caresses of fingertips.

"Kiyoomi's lucky ta have ya. Lord knows 'Tsumu'd probably wreck him," Atsumu has to swallow rapidly to avoid choking on his soup. The acidity burns his throat on the way down, sending him reeling as he forces water down his throat.

Forcing a genial chuckle, Atsumu digs the heel of his shoe against his brother's ankle to halt the laugh he knows is perched on the edge of Osamu's lips. Oh god, he's not going to survive this.

With his best impression of a 'Samu-esque smirk, he turns to his brother.

"Ya hear that? I'm a better husband than ya."

"Shut the hell up, asshole. Rin would beg ta differ," the intermingling of lies and the honest to god truth as Atsumu's head spinning, temporarily knocking the sense from his brain and replacing it with a silent longing for his new home. With a forceful shove, he pushes those thoughts away and replaces them with a sarcastic scoff.

"Whatever. Yer just jealous that I'm the favorite child."

"I'm Ma's favorite an' we both know it," that much is true. Osamu's always been the pet project of their father who's been training him since day one to be king. Atsumu can only assume he probably did something stupid as a kid like eating a worm and effectively locked himself out of such a position.

Conversely, their mother had always had an affinity for Atsumu, likely because he was always much more (bratty) affectionate than his brother.

"Oh, boys. Ya know we don't have favorites," she lies. Atsumu picks at his soup and bottles up a sigh in his chest. "Anyway, keep talkin'. I feel like I haven't seen my babies in forever. I miss hearin' about yer days."

"There ain't much ta talk about, Ma," which is not true at all, but the more he can get himself out of having to speak, the better, even if it means enduring awkward family silence. "Turns out that life ain't much different. Havin' fewer responsibilities has been nice though."

There's a moment of silence where his mother studies him as if she can see straight through his facade to the trembling secret - not very well-kept - beneath. And for that terrifying moment, Atsumu worries he might've fucked this whole thing up somehow.

His immediate thought is that he absolutely cannot be found out because if he is, he can't stay married to Kiyoomi. And even if he doesn't go to jail and even if nothing bad happens to him, even if everything else stays exactly the same, he refuses to go back to his life before his husband.

Maybe if he'd never met Kiyoomi Sakusa. Maybe if they'd never gone on that not-honeymoon. Maybe if they'd never made that bet. Maybe if Kiyoomi had never let him get so close that very first night. Maybe if none of those things had happened, then he'd be joking exuberantly and smiling too wide and slurring his accent like he's used to.

But all those things _did_ happen, and Atsumu can't forget them. An empty glass doesn't know it's empty until it's full.

Atsumu never thought, in all his life, that his saving grace in a social situation would be his father of all people. When he speaks for the first time that night, all eyes are drawn to him (thankfully, away from Atsumu), and a wave of relief crashes over Atsumu like the ocean against a rocky shore. Even if he knows what his father has to says is nothing tender or soft, the scrutiny of his truth value is gone and replaced with a different kind of judgment altogether.

"I watched your interview with President Morozov," his father's voice is deep and dark with a hint of gravel. He sounds angry and thunderous, even when the calm on his face suggests otherwise. Atsumu swallows, waiting for the inevitable criticism. "I think you handled it well."

And- Okay, well, that's only happened once in his life before. Well, he supposes for Osamu it's probably more than that, but a quick glance at his brother's expression reveals that it says something similar to his own.

Both twins' lips part in tandem, eyebrows raising, eyes widening simultaneously.

"Th-...Thank ya," is all that ends up coming out of Atsumu's mouth which suddenly feels drier than a desert.

He can't breathe as his father stares him down with those unyielding eyes of his - they match Osamu's more than his own. Atsumu finds his knee bouncing anxiously of his own accord under the scrutiny of his own father, the only comfort he finds in the form of Osamu's foot-tapping rhythmically against his ankle.

That's what he does. When Atsumu gets nervous. Has done it since they were kids going to publicity events and charity galas. They tap their feet under the table to an unknown beat until the rhythm of Atsumu's anxious heart settles in-time. It's a ritual, a routine. Atsumu breathes deeply, releasing through lips parted so slightly they're nearly closed.

"Thank you," he repeats again, solid this time. A confirmation instead of a hastily applied bandaid to the situation.

The rest of the dinner goes smoothly after that - well, as smoothly as it can go with predetermined speed bumps they're bound to run into. When Kiyoomi enters the conversation, he stiffens (hopefully not visibly), when they insist on talking about the Kiori interview, Atsumu nearly runs for his life. And he doesn't miss the jealousy flaring in his brother's eyes at the mention of Suna and him, the discomfort over the notion that Suna is Atsumu's instead of his.

But they get through it.

 _Tap, tap, tap,_ and he settles easily into the thread of conversation. Atsumu makes sure to disperse it as quickly as possible, bringing up their mother's recent visit to Haiti.

Always an avid aid worker (as has been her passion since college), their mother dotes about the lovely kids she met there. They spend a gloriously relaxed fifteen minutes on the subject of a girl named Fabiola who was all too excited to learn about their country's customs before they're landing abruptly back into the subject of the twins' lives.

In the end, Atsumu knows it was nice, a welcome moment of familiarity in a world that has been turbulent since the onset of the wedding. And when his parents bid him goodbye at the door, he knows he's going to miss the warmth of being home, the comfort of the place he was raised in and the people who know him best.

They're out the door by seven-thirty. On the way to Suna's by eight after a brief stop at a gas station for the special variety of cheap ice cream they only ever got to have when they were staying in hotels with vending machines as children.

Atsumu has a lot of things he misses. A list, even. He never realized how high up on that list his family is.

-

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > Omi_

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > Omi_

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > OmiOmi_

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > Omi Bby_

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > BBY RESPOND_

 _are you always this annoying over text? << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > Are you always this unresponsive?_

 _you texted me five times within the span of a minute. << _ **_Omi_ **

_my phone buzzed itself off the table. << _ **_Omi_ **

_what is it that you want? << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > Hi :D_

 _oh my god are you fucking with me right now? << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > Awwww Omiomi you're so mean to me i thought you loved me :(_

_[read: 10:32 p.m.]_

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > ARE YOU SERIOUS. _

_stop texting me. i'll block u. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > OMI WTF I'M YOUR HUSBAND NOT A FUCKING STALKER YOU CAN'T DO THIS_

 _should've thought of that before you became an annoying brat. << _ **_Omi_ **

_oh wait. i guess that's not fair of me. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > THANK YOU_

 _you've always been that way. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > AUGSIOSDHUOEHRUWRH_

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > I'M TELLING 'SAMU BOUT THIS SHIT_

 _go ahead. he'll probably agree with me. <<_ **_Omi_**

 **_Atsumu_ ** _> > FUCK YOU FOR BEING RIGHT_

 _fr why are you texting me? shouldn't you be spending time with your family or smth? << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > One, why are you such a dry texter it's gross. Two, I misssss youuuuu :(_

 _it's called using proper grammar. and you literally saw me five hours ago. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > What so I'm not allowed to miss you now? _

_not this quickly, jesus. give it a few days at least. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > YOUR SO MEAN TO ME WHY LIKE I COULD CONFESS MY UNDYING LOVE FOR YOU AND YOU'D BE LIKE 'OK COOL' _

_*you're. and you already did confess your undying love for me << _ **_Omi_ **

_and if i'm remembering correctly, i responded very appropriately << _ **_Omi_ **

_'i love you too' << _ **_Omi_ **

_once is enough. now you know. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS. ONCE DOESN'T EVEN BEGIN TO MEET THE REQUIREMENTS. _

_of course not for you bc you're a greedy bastard. << _ **_Omi_ **

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > I hate you. _

_[Read: 10:39 p.m.]_

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > WHAT THE FUCK_

_[Read: 10:40 p.m.]_

**_Atsumu_ ** _ >> WE TALKED FOR EIGHT MINUTES_

_[Read: 10:41 p.m.]_

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > THIS SHIT AIN'T FUNNY ANYMORE _

_[Read: 10: 42 p.m.]_

**_Atsumu_ ** _> > I want a divorce. _

_[Message not delivered]_  
  
  


Every choice he's ever made in life and they've all lead him here. Atsumu smacks his phone face down on his brother's kitchen counter.

"'Samu gimme yer phone!"

Suna's apartment is exactly where Atsumu would want to live if he acutally lived a normal life. Exposed brick walls, stainless steel appliances, floor-to-ceiling windows, and hardwood floors. The simplicity is a jarring contrast from gold-glided everything and marble tiles and chandeliers with crystals bigger than his head. It feels more like a home than any palace Atsumu's ever lived in, even if it's just a temporary getaway.

But just because it's nice and familiar doesn't stop him from missing the warmth of the left side of the bed where he sleeps, the dark eyes and twin moles that stand out against pearly skin, the arms that wrap around his waist and hold him close. But he can stand it for two weeks. It's just two weeks, right? That's only fourteen days.

He once had a girlfriend who he didn't talk to for a month after they got together (okay, yes, that was in sixth grade and they weren't even remotely friends, in fact, they never even officially broke up, but that's beside the point). He's got this.

At least, that's what he thought.

"Yuh'll have ta pry it from my cold dead hands," what his reality actually turned out to be is him practically crushing his brother's spine as he jumps the man. Osamu seems genuinely caught off-guard by the sudden invasion (as if he wasn't fully expecting Atsumu to do it when given such an open invitation). "What the fuck ya psycho?! That wasn't a fuckin' invitation!"

Atsumu gets the phone regardless, swiping the small glass device from his brother's hand and encountering little resistance with the surprise that holds Osamu in a death grip. The movie they had (not really) been watching now drones on in the background as the two squabble, Atsumu holding his brother's phone high above his head and taking every punch thrown at him like a champ.

"I'm not gonna go through yer an' Sunarin's sexts'r whatever, I just needa call my husband!"

"Okay one," Osamu reaches up to aggressively twist at his brother's nipple, effectively dislodging Atsumu's hand from where it had been stiff-arming his face with a pained yelp. "We don't needa sext, we literally live together. An' two, use yer own fuckin' phone!"

Atsumu slaps his hand away, the phone still clutched tightly in his grip as he pinches Osamu's cheek _hard_ in retaliation for a frankly, sloppily executed purple-nurple.

"He blocked me!"

"Well no shit, yer a dick!"

"He's s'posed ta love me!" Atsumu grinds his knee against his twin's abdomen, causing Osamu to curl in on himself with pain and giving him an opening to escape. "I'm gonna give it back ya big baby! I'll even fuckin' pay ya if ya want!" He feels comfortable shouting once he's safely made it to the door of the guest room.

"I wish I had eaten ya in the womb!" Osamu screams back, not a charitable bone in his body at the current moment. Hey, if he doesn't wanna get paid, Atsumu's not giving up his (not) hard-earned money.

"Yeah, well, then ya wouldn't have had anyone ta bail ya out when ya couldn't marry _Sunarin_ ," Atsumu drawls the name of his childhood friend between puckered lips and Osamu sneers - the sneer that says, _I'm about to kill you if you don't start running._

"It was _your_ idea!"

"An' ya went along with it!"

Atsumu knows he's tempting fate. With Sunarin in the shower and a fuming Osamu less than fifty feet from him, he's really setting himself up to get slaughtered. But he _can't stop._ No one ever accused Atsumu Miya of having good judgment.

"I'm just askin' ya ta lend me yer phone! It ain't a big deal!"

"Ya didn't ask me, ya just fuckin' took it."

"I said, 'Samu gimme yer phone. An' ya said I'd havta pry it from yer cold dead hands so like...I dunno what ya were thinkin' but-" it's when Osamu begins to barrel down the hallway at an inhuman speed that Atsumu has the good sense to slam the guest bedroom door closed. Osamu lands against it with a thunk and Atsumu reels back, startled at the sheer amount of force put behind his brother's attempt to break down his own door.

"I swear ta god 'Tsumu if ya go through my phone, I'm gonna kill ya an' no one'll ever find out!"

"Oh my god, yer opinion of me is so low," Atsumu doesn't give his brother the chance to remark just how _justified_ that low opinion is. "I'm a dick but I ain't a monster. I just need a number Omi hasn't blocked yet."

"Doesn't that tell ya somethin' aboutcher relationship?" Atsumu rolls his eyes before he realizes there's (thankfully) a solidly standing door between the two of them.

"What _ever_ I get it y'an' Sunarin are _perfect_ ," he grimaces at memory of three solid years of third-wheeling in high school. "Now leave me alone, I'm tryina bother my husband into talkin' ta me."

Atsumu knows by the telltale stomping of socked feet that his brother is most definitely about to barge in on his boyfriend in the shower to slander his good name. But seeing as his options are either to stay put and get verbally assaulted or go out and get physically assaulted, he naturally chooses the former.

Flopping down on the guest bed - smaller and lonelier than the one he shares with Kiyoomi - Atsumu gingerly navigates his brother's phone with a single index finger. He's an absolutely amazing fucking brother, which is why he, with all his willpower, resists the urge to snoop through his brother's phone, carefully avoiding any sensitive apps - social media, photos. He doesn't even begin to get near messages.

(If he wasn't going to hell already, reading Osamu's texts would certainly earn him a place.)

Look, he could be the worst goddamn person right now. You have to give him at least a little bit of credit for not taking the golden opportunity.

Atsumu thanks every deity he knows the name of that his brother had the good sense to save Kiyoomi's number as 'Sakusa' - okay, call him stupid but he's never going to remember a number if he didn't save it immediately after receiving it. (Why do you think he has a rap sheet of angry texts from hot strangers he forgot to call back?) And he's not going to risk stepping foot outside the only safe place in the apartment to reference his own phone.

He clicks on the contact and the phone rings an agonizing three times before Kiyoomi's voice is crackling through the other end completely different than Atsumu's used to hearing it. There's no edge of annoyance and no fondness, just completely flat. Atsumu doesn't know if he should be flattered or offended.

"Osamu?"

"It's me ya jackass," is doesn't even dawn on Atsumu that he and his brother also largely have the same voice until he's wrinkling his nose at the thought - though he supposes that Kiyoomi should know him well enough by now to be able to sense his utter dickery over the phone by now.

"Okay bye," is what his husband says. Atsumu is fucking reeling.

" _Omi,_ " he whines obnoxiously into the microphone. "Don't hang up on me! This isn't fair! We talked for like five minutes an' ya left me on read! I'm yer husband yer s'posed to love me."

Kiyoomi is either rolling his eyes so far back in his head he can see his own brain or doing that adorable soft smiley thing, maybe both. Atsumu hopes for the second while knowing full well that it's probably the first. Omi always makes him smile, he can only hope to return the favor, even if he's going out of his way to be an attention-seeking brat.

"Yeah and I do," Atsumu buries his face in the pillows with a silent scream - goddamn, his standards for affection have dropped so low he can't even see where they begin. Just the allusion to Kiyoomi Sakusa loving him, even if he doesn't say the words, even if it's through the speaker of a phone and said with absolutely zero emotion, makes him squirm with giddiness.

It's only after a moment of lying face down against the bed that he manages to get out a muffled,

"Okay, so yer gonna talk ta me now?"

"No."

The fucking nerve of this bitch.

" _Omi,_ " he wishes they were one FaceTime so Kiyoomi could see his incredulous pout - maybe if they were, his husband would see just how much Atsumu is _suffering_ without him. Having to sit through a dinner with his parents without a hand to hold was cruel and unusual punishment. He adjusts so he's laying on his side, putting Kiyoomi on speakerphone. "Why?"

There's a pause so long that Atsumu could be convinced to think Kiyoomi had just ended the call if not for the slowly ticking timer measuring how long they've been talking (two minutes, thirty-seven seconds. And counting). Something in his stomach churns, something unpleasant. Did he say something wrong? Is Kiyoomi actually upset with him? Does he actually not want to talk to Atsumu?

The idea of it has a lump forming in his throat, but he doesn't make a sound, too scared to break something further. In all honesty, Atsumu's never been a husband before - well, obviously not in the traditional sense, but more so in the emotional sense. He's been a one-night-stand, a casual fling, he even sort of dated a guy for two months before they mutually realized their feelings didn't travel with them out of the bedroom.

But he's never had to do this before.

Never had to stay invested and call and talk and _worry._ And he never wanted to. But now he does. Which is scary in the same way as being dropped in the middle of the ocean and told to find land.

"I've never done this before," Kiyoomi breaks him away from drowning, voice soft, uncharacteristically earnest. There's not sarcastic edge or teasing lilt. Just unfettered honesty.

"Talked on the phone?" Atsumu asks even though he knows that's not what Kiyoomi is trying to say - no one ever accused him of being able to handle serious situations well.

"You're such an asshole," but there's a smile in his voice and Atsumu can hear it loud and clear. "No, I'm talking about _this. Us._ " Of course he hasn't. Kiyoomi never even had a boyfriend before Atsumu got dumped on his doorstep. Atsumu has never been part of something even remotely resembling an _us_ before. It's always been _him_ and some other person. When Kiyoomi speaks again, it sounds muffled, like his cheek is squished against a pillow.

Atsumu wishes they were together so he could reach out and _touch._ Drag his fingertips lightly over skin so smooth and perfect he has no right to be touching it, try and fail to sort out a mess of ebony curls, tell his Omi without words that he doesn't need to be scared.

"What if I say something wrong and you get mad and I don't see you for two weeks?" Kiyoomi confides at a whisper, and Atsumu knows his eyes must be comically large right now, disbelief taking purchase of his body now frozen where it lays. "Like...or if you meet someone else and you...fuck, I don't know..."

Atsumu bites his bottom lip so hard he swears it draws blood - he's not smiling at Kiyoomi's insecurities, absolutely not. Just the fact that he has them. Confident, sarcastic, _chilly_ Kiyoomi Sakusa, worried that Atsumu will miraculously run off with someone else after two weeks apart. He couldn't be cuter if he tried.

"Omi, I'm visitin' my Ma. Who am I gonna meet?" He can practically hear Kiyoomi's disgruntled grimace through the phone and it only serves to feed his traitorous smile.

"I'm trying to be _emotionally open_ with you, you dick." Atsumu knows. He's never loved someone more. Doesn't see how he could.

"I know, I know," he's so stupid, smiling so wide his face hurts over something as small as this. He's just too happy - too happy that his Omi is confiding in him, too happy that his husband is so sweet, too happy that Kiyoomi is talking to him and telling him things and being so goddamn cute he thinks his heart might just explode. "I'm sorry baby."

He gets a frustrated grunt in response.

"It's just...harder when I can't see you."

Atsumu nearly rolls off his bed with the excitement of his absolutely brilliant idea, reaching to turn on the bedside lamp and adding an aureate glow to the silver beams of moonlight streaming through the window of the bedroom. If it's not seeing him that's the concern, Atsumu has a quite simple fix for their problem.

"FaceTime me," he demands once he's settled. Kiyoomi's sigh manifests as static through the speaker, but he gives in to the request regardless.

When Kiyoomi's face appears on-screen, he looks slightly sleepy in the way that jacks up his cute-factor ten times, the ghost of a smile being forced off his lips. Atsumu has the sudden need to kiss him silly until his Omi has no choice but to show him that pretty smile of his.

Having no way to do that, however, Atsumu settles for the fondest grin as he chortles,

"See? Now ya can see me."

"You're so stupid," Kiyoomi shakes his head against the pillow he's laying on, dark curls messy and frizzed as his teeth catch his bottom lip in a vice grip. His voice is deep and smooth as he asks knowingly, "So how did dinner with your parents go?"

Atsumu scrunches his nose and frowns, both completely unintentional.

"It...went."

Kiyoomi snorts, sarcasm making its reprise.

"That's it?" Atsumu breaks at those words, the floodgates of his whininess opening and drowning the once respectable conversation.

"It was _awful_ Omi. I love them, but _seriously_ it was terrifyin'. My Ma made a joke 'bout how ya were lucky ta have 'Samu because I'd ruin ya'r somethin' an' I almost fuckin' lost it," he perches Osamu's phone on the pillows in front of him, now-free hands forming stiff claws to emphasize his point. "An' that was like, five minutes in!"

"Then my dad complimented me an' it was all weird. 'Cause he literally _never_ compliments me. Only 'Samu. An' he thought I was 'Samu! An' I didn't know what ta say so I was just like 'Uh thanks I guess'," Kiyoomi is looking at him too fondly for a man who's listening to his husband babble loudly and only half-coherent. It's all in his eyes, swirling syrupy thick. Otherwise, his expression is almost completely flat save for one raised eyebrow.

"Then Ma kept sayin' how I was _so_ lucky I 'married such a handsome boy'," Kiyoomi simpers at that, dark eyes narrowed, lips twisting into a smirk. Atsumu sticks his tongue out. "An' they actually think _I_ am datin' Sunarin. Can ya fuckin' believe that? Me?"

"Talk shit about Rin an' I'll break down this door ta shatter yer knee caps," Osamu's voice sounds from outside his door.

"Yes I _know!_ Ya love him an' yer _gross_ about it! He's my friend too, this is a safe fuckin' space," he yells through the wall, probably wrecking his husband's ears in the processes.

"Your brotherly love is heartwarming," Kiyoomi snarks in monotone, drawing hazel eyes back to the task at hand.

"Joke's on you Omi. This _is_ our version a' heartwarmin'."

Kiyoomi lets Atsumu tire himself out lamenting after that, patiently waiting because (if Atsumu's being completely honest with himself) his Omi actually _is_ a good husband. Not that he's ever going to say that out loud. That would shake the very foundation on which their relationship was built: lethal doses of sarcasm and only confessing deep emotional truths when one of them is crying.

This stupid-perfect man and his stupid-beautiful eyes watch Atsumu's every frantic hand gesture to accompany his ramblings. Full lips aren't smiling but they're perpetually in a state of limbo where they're damn near close to it. He's so pretty that Atsumu has to cover up his momentary distraction with his husband's face by coughing or clearing his throat.

( _"You good?"_

 _"Lost my train a' thought."_ )

When Atsumu finally falls silent, he lets himself just stare. And miss. Miss touching and kissing and holding. He even misses getting elbowed in the ribs for being an idiot. His chest aches with it. But then Kiyoomi smiles, and it serves as a most potent antidote for his wistful longing.

Somewhere a little past one, he falls asleep to the sweet lull of Kiyoomi's voice telling him to, _just go the fuck to sleep you dumbass._ Such a gentle man. Atsumu loves him all the same, even if the last thing he hears his husband say is a curse word, even if he has to pretend he's asleep when Kiyoomi accidentally wakes him up by whispering _'I love you'_ before he ends the call. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, many things on my agenda today: 
> 
> 1) i'm getting worse about updating and i know it. things have been stressful lately and you guys are so sweet about not being mad at me for my wait-times, so i thank you dearly for it T^T <3 
> 
> 2) i'm having a mental dilemma right now because the final plot point is about a month away in STORY time but in real time that means at least a couple more chapters. so i had to decide between just skipping to the end or giving you a few chapters of nothing-fluff. which brings me to my third item: 
> 
> 3) because the addition of a time skip for what is just a few weeks time felt weird and awkward, the next chapter(s) is/are going to be kind of light on story and heavy on the overuse of the synonyms for 'sweet'. that being said, i hope you'll stick around. 
> 
> 4) finally, thank you so much for your ongoing support and lovely comments, i hold them close to my heart and use them as my fuel for writing. ily guys. stay safe and have a lovely day/night~!


	26. oh my god, can you kiss for us?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Waddaya say, babe? Wanna kiss me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up being a perfect 5k chapter it made me so happy T^T

Suna has known them for too long, he's sure of it. He's sure one day he's going to have a break with reality and go completely off the deep end.

And yet he stays for reasons unbeknownst to him. Or rather, it's more like he can't leave.

Even as he watches Atsumu get body-slammed into his couch, it burns a pit of fondness beneath his sternum - the Miya twins are some twisted sons of bitches (not really, their mother is absolutely lovely). One moment they're tearing at each other's throats like wild animals, the next, they're puppy dogs begging for attention. Suna is half-convinced his definitions for 'cute' and 'loveable' have been forever warped just by being in the presence of such heathens.

They haven't quite reached the puppy dog state just yet.

Suna reclines against the wall as he watches his boyfriend make absolutely zero progress in murdering his brother. Any sane person would step in and say something, a good person might throw themselves between the two, the sacrificial lamb. But Suna Rintarou surrendered his sanity to the Miya twins a long time ago and it doesn't look like he's going to get it back.

Plus, he's not really that good of a person.

Honestly, he's half-convinced Osamu is only dating him for his body. He decided a while back that he can live with that if it ends up being the case. It's well worth it.

"Yer not even gonna _try_ an' save me, Sunarin?!" Atsumu grits out, barely holding Osamu's wrists to prevent himself from being brutally beaten to death.

"No offense, but you're my second favorite Miya twin so...nah," in reality, it's more like he doesn't have the energy or the willpower to entertain their bullshit at the moment. But it's always fun to watch Atsumu squirm. "Also it's _so_ much work."

"One, I take full fuckin' offense. Two, loyalties'r dead with ya," what was once on the path to punching quickly devolves into each slapping the other sloppily. Suna's had to watch them do this for what is a few months away from a decade now. This is tame shit, honestly. He once saw Atsumu purposely serve a volleyball into Osamu's face.

Of course, that ended with Atsumu getting a killer shiner for his efforts.

"I never had any loyalties to you in the first place so..."

Atsumu huffs as both twins roll off the couch with a grunt - Suna feels half-tempted to tell them not to break the coffee table, but he's never going to get the end of it from 'Samu if he interrupts this now.

"Oh I get it now, he's fuckmailin' ya," Suna wrinkles his nose.

"...What?" The question escapes his lips before he has a chance to get smart as he makes his way to the kitchen for some water. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, he fills it in the sink, not enthused about the idea of having to wait for the fridge and its snail speed flow-rate. "Wait actually, no, don't explain it. I don't wanna know."

"Ya gotta be on his side 'cause he's givin' ya dic-" there's a hefty thunk that almost has Suna whipping around before he suddenly realizes how little of a fuck he gives. As long as he's not driving anyone to the ER three in the afternoon, he could care less. "OW BITCH!"

"I choose to be on his side. The dick is just an added benefit," Suna chortles, ever one to add fuel to the fire.

"I fuckin' hatecha both!"

"Sweet sentiment."

"An' ta think Ma actually thinks I'm datin' ya," Suna leans against the counter, water glass in hand as he watches his boyfriend and his boyfriend's brother stare at each other from opposite sides of the couch, ready to pounce at any moment. It was a lot worse in high school. Suna sees this as progress. "With the way ya treat me."

"What are you talking about? I'm a fuckin' treasure. What are you guys fighting about this time anyway?"

"He used my fuckin' shampoo," Suna stretches languidly, rolling his shoulders and tilting his neck to each side with a satisfying click. What a lovely argument to wake up to on his off-day.

"Ya want me ta just not shower then?! I didn't bring my own! I expected ta be treated with _hospitalit-_ Fuck," Atsumu's not-so-witty remarks are cut off as Osamu springs onto the couch, scrambling for his brother who slides on socked feet to the other end, effectively switching their positions. Never a boring moment with the Miya's.

"I don't wanna _smell_ like ya!"

"We literally share a face! Shampoo ain't gonna make a difference!"

"The way I see it, I _already_ share a face with ya. I demand ta not be a carbon copy of ya!"

Okay, maybe there's no _technically_ boring moments with the Miya's, but Suna's seen this exact argument ensue the same way enough times that he knows it'll probably end with one of the twins pouring the rest of Osamu's vanilla-lavender shampoo down the drain while the other barely resists the urge to commit a felony.

Then they're going to sulk for the rest of the day, and Suna doesn't feel like spending one of his rare off-days placating the Miya twins. Plus, he's never been good at mediating arguments. More likely than not, he'll either end up being a passive bystander or just make everything a whole lot worse.

Today, he decides to go for the path of least resistance - in essence, not stepping in, but not-not stepping in either. It's the laziest possible what to intervene in a Miya twins argument, but it almost always works like a charm, has since their high school days.

Setting the water glass down on the counter, Suna makes his way over to Osamu, who pays him little mind until the middle blocker is tangling his arms around the prince's waist and dropping his head to his shoulder most unsubtly.

"'Samu, I'm tired, love me." It's not exactly a lie, Suna Rintarou is one hundred percent of the time tired, even after waking up from a solid nine hours of sleep. Plus, Osamu is always the one demanding affection, he should get to be a brat too sometimes.

"Ya just woke up two hours ago!"

"And watchin' you guys fight took it the fuck outta me," he noses at his boyfriend's jawline, an action damn near close to nuzzling that has a disgusted sneer materializing on Atsumu's lips. Suna takes silent satisfaction in it - if there's one thing that makes him feel alive, it's watching the Miya's squirm. Even Osamu, the _tame_ twin, is oh so deliciously reactive.

And it's modeled beautifully in the way he heaves a heft sigh, dropping his head in something akin to defeat as Suna places small kisses behind his ear. He resists a smile, no matter how minute it might be, when Osamu brings his hand up to brush the pad of his thumb gently over his knuckles. Atsumu pretends to gag, Suna simpers like the sadist he is.

"Hah, 'Samu's whipped."

He is, Suna's been living with him and it's blatantly apparent. He doesn't risk saying this out loud, though, knowing it'll probably end with his boyfriend's sulking - _yer supposed to be on my side, Rin!_

"Ya stole my phone ta call yer husband literally hours after ya last saw him an' _I'm_ the one who's whipped?"

"Ya stopped arguin' with _me_ ta hug yer boyfriend, yes ya'are the one who's whipped."

"Ya little fuc-"

"Let's watch a movie," Suna interjects. The back and forth can be endless if you let it get out of hand. He once watched the twins idly bicker at an almost constant rate over the course of five hours, only stopping when Aran threatened to get Kita involved. The only way to make it stop is to end it before it has the chance to begin.

"It's literally ten in the mornin'."

"Okay fine, I'll just snuggle with Vabo-Chan instead," Suna begins the process of detangling his arms from around Osamu's waist, fully ready to make good on his promise and retrieve the Vabo-Chan plushie that Osamu borrowed (stole) from his brother ten years ago from their bedroom.

As predicted, he gets about as far as unlacing his fingers before Osamu is tugging on his arms and falling face-first onto the couch.

"Jesus yer _so_ manipulative."

"I'm not really. You're just an easy target," oh how easy it is to get what he wants from Osamu. All he has to do is threaten to walk away from an argument and Osamu caves faster than a house of cards. Mainly because they both know Suna will go through with it then forget they were even arguing in the first place. "Why do you think I always get what I want?"

Osamu mumbles something muffled into the couch cushions, and Suna is forced to hide his fond smile against the juncture of his boyfriend's shoulder. On some level, he's sure the man has been on a steady course of dismantling him piece by piece since the day they met. What other explanation is there for the way Suna's personality has gone from cool to sappy? He's a stupid mushy pile of domestic goo and it's Osamu's fault for making him that way-

"God _damn,_ ya guys really are goin' fer nostalgia," Suna heaves a long-suffering sigh as he feels the couch dip with Atsumu's weight. He would look up, but his body really doesn't have the energy, "I feel like we're back in high school again! Ya know, y'guys bein' cute an' rubbin' yer perfect relationship in my face while I sit here an' third wheel like a champ-"

"It's not my faultcha were a whore in high school," Osamu pokes him in the side half-heartedly. One more week. This was a really bad idea. Suna can't fathom how the Miya twins managed to survive twelve years together before they met him and Aran.

"Ew don't touch me."

"Oh, what the fuck is it now?"

"Y'guys might getcher gross love disease all over me," behind closed eyelids, Suna rolls his eyes so hard he nearly gives himself a headache, shoving his face further against Osamu's shoulder to drown out the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Why can't it always be nighttime? He just wants to sleep, occasionally wake up to kiss Osamu or eat a sandwich, then sleep again. "Disgustin'."

"Yer so gross, ya make it sound like an STD."

"Yer an STD."

"You guys are seriously the worst pair of twins I know of," Suna (reluctantly) spurs into action, clamoring most ungracefully over Osamu to reach for the remote that sits on the glass coffee table, in desperate need of a distraction from their bickering.

"Nuh-uh, what about those creepy motherfuckers in the Shinin' eh?"

Suna shakes his head, muffling his next words against Osamu's hair.

"At least they added entertainment value."

-

"My god, I fuckin' _love_ Target."

Since Osamu's having weekly dinner with the twins' mother, Suna has to be Atsumu's babysitter for the day. Which, while not an uncommon situation for him to be in, is something he hasn't had to deal with in years since he and Osamu started dating. Usually, all that meant was that Atsumu wanted nothing to do with them, especially around each other.

But sometimes you just have to do things, even if you'd rather be passed out on the couch while your boyfriend rubs your feet.

"Sunarin, we gotta get Oreos," Atsumu acts like he's never stepped foot in a grocery store before - come to think of it, he probably hasn't. Why would he have? All the food he eats is prepared for him ahead of time and even then, Suna doubts any of the ingredients are from _Target._

"Okay one, no, and two, you gotta call me by my first name. We're dating, remember?" Atsumu's nose wrinkles with the idea - for once they're on the same page - but his bereft sigh and the way his shoulders slump say all they need to. "And for that matter, at least try to look enthused about the fact that you're with me. Can't forget how _in love_ we are."

The words taste gross on his tongue. They may look the same and possess the same levels of idiocy (Osamu's more closeted than Atsumu's) but at the end of the day, the twins are nowhere near the same person. And honestly, the thought of dating Atsumu kind of makes his stomach churn. He has no doubt that Atsumu returns his feelings in full.

"Oh baby talk dirty ta me," Atsumu grumps, reluctantly stepping closer to Suna as a they walk. It's awkward as all fuck, and tense as hell, and it takes all of Suna's willpower not to run over his feet with the wheels of the cart. "I still don't see why y'an 'Samu had ta make yer relationship so public- Sorry, _our_ relationship."

"It wasn't intentional, but Washio found out, and then he just _had_ to tell everyone on the team and you know how good volleyball guys are at keeping secrets," Suna shrugs. Honestly, he'd been wanting him and Osamu to be 'out' for quite some time before the wedding. But Osamu had always told him it was never the right time.

Maybe he was right to. At least it's less shady, all things considered.

"But now I gotta act like I _like_ ya," Atsumu sure is whiny for a twenty-four-year-old man who supposedly got educated by the best college-level tutors in the country. "That's so gross!"

"I mean ouch," Nah, he gets it. He really does. Even if he had his eyes closed he would be able to tell if he was kissing Osamu verses, god forbid, Atsumu. It's hard to act in love with someone you've spent your whole life around. Atsumu's like a second sibling to Suna. It's downright weird to think that people are seeing him and _Osamu_ together and thinking, 'damn, Suna and Atsumu sure do look good together'.

But that's the world they live in. Arranged marriages and secret plots centering around the aforementioned arranged marriage. Suna learned to stop trying to figure everything out a while ago. He figures that, if the Miya twins were (somehow) smart enough to pull it off, they should be smart enough to keep it going.

"Oh c'mon, like yer not thinkin' the same thing," Atsumu scoffs as they get it the ice cream aisle. Suna normally skips it, but Atsumu, like the brat he is, had whipped out a handy little list of all the places in the store they simply _had_ to visit. "I mean seriously yer like my brother- Or like...my cousin I'm real close to or somethin'. People actually think we kiss an' fuck each other-"

"You don't have to keep reminding me."

"I'm just sayin'. Aren'tcha at least a little weirded out by it? That the whole world thinks yer datin' me? That the whole world thinks 'Samu is married ta Omi-Kun?"

Again Suna shrugs. He really hasn't thought about it all that much. To him, there's no need to hyper-fixate on the world as a whole, not when he knows Osamu is his and his alone. So what if some other guy is getting credit for his amazing boyfriend? So what if people think he's madly in love with Atsumu? It's not ideal, but as long as he gets to have Osamu all to himself when he comes home from practice, he really could care less.

"Why? Are you bothered by it?"

"Hell yeah I am!" Atsumu damn near shouts, and Suna has to elbow him in the ribs, a reminder that they're in public and it would be far too easy for some dipshit hiding behind a chip rack to expose their dirty little secret to the entire world. "I'm bothered that I can't tell everyone Omi's mine. I dunno how yer so okay with this shit."

"Need I remind you that you and your brother are the ones who planned 'this shit'?" Atsumu heaves a heavy sigh. "Not to mention that you didn't even _like_ Kiyoomi before you married him."

"I still don't _like_ OmiOmi."

"You guys have a weird fuckin' relationship."

"I _love_ him."

"And you call me and 'Samu gross," Suna sneers with probably the most expression has let slip since Atsumu arrived. It's not that he's not comfortable with Atsumu, just that his outbursts and meltdowns are reserved for Osamu.

Atsumu opens his mouth, probably to fire back another badly thought-out insult, but never gets the chance. Suna almost thanks the benevolent deity that had a hand in Atsumu's silence before he realizes that the deity is, in fact, not beneveolent and _is_ a silmy bitch.

Two girls stand in front of them, phone held up and snapping pictures as fast as their fingers will allow them. Silmy bitch indeed. This is going to go great.

"Oh my god, this is so cool, what the hell," a girl with hair died cerry red is gaping at them. Atsumu looks like a dear caught in headlights - lips still parted, eyes wide open, face completely frozen where it rests in shock. "You're _prince_ Atsumu and you're Suna from the Rajin's this is like...the best day of my life."

A blonde stands next to her, mimicking Atsumu's expression to the T as if she, too, can't believe this is happening - niether can Suna, though he doesn't show it so outwardly as they do.

"Hi, I'm Kora and this is Beth, jesus this is so crazy," cherry-hair girl, Kora, extends a hand which Atsumu seems too paralyzed to take - Suna almost forgot he probably hasn't been called by his actual name in months. Her grip is surprisingly strong for a girl who looks like she can't weight more than ninety pounds at the most. "We're like, totally big fans of you guys- Which totally sounds weird to say and you probably get that a lot but...Fuck I'm rambling- Shit I just swore in front of a prince-"

"Don't worry about it. 'Tsumu has the dirtiest mouth of anyone I know," Suna shrugs and Kora somehow flushes and blanches at the same time.

"Holy shit I wish I had that on video."

"You guys are like...dating, right?" Beth speaks for the first time and her blue eyes hold abject wonder.

But _fuck_ , Suna forgot about that.

"Uh, yeah, we're together," the words feel so wrong to say in the context of Atsumu, and he can tell from the way the Miya prince looks at him in thinly veild panic that he's thinking the exact same thing.

But if he thought that was the worst part, he's in for a sore surprise when Kora asks with the innocence of fucking Bambi,

"Oh my god, can you kiss for us?"

 _Kiss. Atsumu Miya. I'd rather die,_ he doesn't say out loud.

Suna has never felt more out of place in his life as an awkward sound escapes his lips to stop himself from choking on his own spit - he's supposed to be cool and smooth and collected, but instead of any actual words leaving his mouth, there's a low,

"Uh..." and even then his voice cracks in the middle.

"Please? It'd be so cute on my story," Kora and Beth are totally in sync, quite unlike Atsumu and Suna at the moment, both of whom are floundering for an exit out of this in their own separate ways. Kora pays their suffering no mind as she extracts her phone once again and holds it up to them.

All the cardio training he goes through and he can't even run when it counts. Body rooted to the spot, he turns his head to Atsumu next to him, who looks so panic-stricken that Suna would probably be wheezing with laughter right now if his own internal monologue wasn't just high-pitched shrieking.

"Waddaya say, babe? Wanna kiss me?" He manages to eek out as casually as possible, though it feels like he's muttering a curse - Osamu is going to actually murder him for this. But what can he do? He's stuck between a rock and a hard place; the hard place being having to _kiss_ a man who's kind of like a cousin to him, the rock being the inevitable certainty that everything will fall apart if he doesn't.

Atsumu looks like he's about to be sick. Or maybe like he's daydreaming about taking a swan dive off the edge of the Grand Canyon. Suna can sympathize.

"Sure, darlin'."

Suna inhales his protests, as he closes his eyes and tries to detach his mind from the situation at hand.

_Just get it over with, don't think about it too much, but pretend to enjoy it, but don't enjoy it-_

Atsumu's lips meet his and it's as unpleasant as he thought it would be - _at least the last one won't be an issue -_ like kissing your cousin. It feels wrong in almost every way imaginable, and the urge to open his eyes to clearly communicate his all-consuming disgust is about as potent as the feeling itself. But he doesn't.

He's not quite sure if this makes him the best or worst boyfriend of the year. One the one hand, he's literally _kissing_ his boyfriend's brother to keep his their secret safe. On the other hand, he's literally _kissing his boyfriend's brother._

Man, this is fucked up.

When they pull away, Suna bites his tongue to suppress a full-body shiver of distaste and gives the phone currently being held in his face his best version of his typical almost-smile.

He doesn't dare look in Atsumu's direction because he doesn't think he'd be able to control his expression if he did. Instead, he just tries not to think about how dead he's going to be for this as Kora and Beth squeal together and thank them profusely. Worst case scenario, he'll have to throw Atsumu under the bus. Actually, he might do it anyway. He's the stupid baby who couldn't stand to be alone for more than an hour.

( _"Omi-Kun's in a boring meeting! What the hell am I s'posed ta do fer an hour an' a half?!_ )

Suna had suggested reading a book or watching TV or, you know, any of those normal person activities, but Atsumu has shaken his head like a child. Look where that got them. He swears this will live on until both of them die of old age.

"Thank you so so much oh my god, that was adorable!" _That's what you'd think,_ Suna can feel his eye twitching so he blinks and smiles uncharacteristically wide to stop it. "Okay, we'll let you go 'cause we totally didn't mean to interrupt anything, but this was totally the best, oh my god."

Suna wants to punch someone.

The girls are giggling to themselves when they walk away and Suna barely represses the urge to kick the shopping cart forward.

"'Samu's gonna kill us," when they pick their walking back up, Atsumu seems to have completely forgotten about his previous enchantment with ice cream, eyes zoned out on the ground like he just fought god and lost.

"Gonna dismember our bodies and incinerate the pieces," Suna adds helpfully.

-

Suna and Atsumu enter the apartment like two kids entering the lair of a dragon - with light steps, not daring to make a sound for fear of incurring the beasts wrath.

Their attempts to be as quiet and unobtrusive as humanly possible fail absolutely spectacularly as it turns out Osamu is literally laying sprawled out across the couch in the darkened apartment, phone in hand.

The two men freeze in the doorway - two grown men, scared of the guy who's literally too lazy to put on a shirt and actually stand up to greet them. Osamu flexes his neck to regard them from where he lays, raising a single hand in place of a verbal 'hello'. Tensely, Atsumu waves back. Suna himself just stares. He's never lied to Osamu about anything before. Never.

They get into a shitton of arguments because of it, but their relationship hinges on both's inherent inability to tell a lie. Atsumu, an avid fuckboy in high school, took that burden away from them, leaving his brother and best friend with only the truth to keep them going.

"Ya guys gonna like...come in or...?"

Atsumu mutters something along the lines of 'yeah' but neither him nor Suna makes any attempt to enter the apartment, standing stock-still in the doorway as if they're worried they might be damning themselves should they move.

There's a moment of strung silence, none of them saying a word. The explanation is caught in Suna's throat, justification lost on him as his eyes flick nervously around the apartment - this isn't technically cheating, right? I mean, they had to do it and it _certainly_ wasn't for pleasure and actually he wishes he could just forget about the whole ordeal.

Osamu can't be mad at him, right? Oh god, but Suna would be _pissed off_ if Osamu kissed his sister - for way too many reasons to list. Even if it was a necessary action, it probably wouldn't stop him from kicking Osamu out of the bed for at least a week.

Oh he is so screwed.

"Oh my god, I _saw_ the video, I ain't gonna eatcha," Osamu sits up and Suna watches sculpted abs flex with the motion - he's a horrible person. But that's partially Osamu's fault for allowing him to be. And being super hot. "Step into the apartment, dipshits."

His order has them practically spilling through the doorway, nearly tripping over themselves with the effort. The door slams behind them with the force of Atsumu's foot, and Suna's too worried about what's going to happen next to scold him for being careless with his apartment.

"Baby, there's a good reason, I swear," Suna rarely uses pet names, but Osamu seems to like them so he figures that whatever can increase the chances of him living is probably the best way to go.

"Are ya kiddin' me?" Fuck, he doesn't have a will yet. Of course, he never thought he'd die at the age of twenty-four but he guesses he should've been thinking ahead a bit more- "This is the funniest shit I've seen since 'Tsumu's interview with President Sewer Rat."

Suna raises his eyebrows, eyes probably comically large at his point.

"Sorry, what?"

"The look a' panic on yer guys' faces when they asked ya fer a kiss," Osamu flips his phone around just to make them relive the mess of it all. Suna cringes at the evidence so clearly displayed in front of them, trying not to wrinkle his nose when him and Atsumu collide on-screen. "Comedy gold. Seriously."

"So...yer not even a little mad?" Atsumu tempts fate. If he had the courage to choke out words, Suna would keep his mouth shut anyway.

"'Course I am- Well, mad's not really the word. More like horrified. But as long as ya didn't enjoy it too much an' aren't plannin' ta do it again-"

"Oh my god, never again, it was like kissing my cousin," Suna spits out hastily. Truthfully, even if Atsumu wasn't like a second sibling to him, even if he was a hot guy who was completely separated from him in every way, Suna would never want to kiss someone other than Osamu Miya.

"Sunarin's lips'r chapped as fuck!" Atsumu adds on helpfully. Suna rolls his eyes, painfully so.

Osamu just pouts that adorable pout, pushing out his plush bottom lip as he reaches up his hand and thumbs at Suna's admittedly dry mouth. The pad of his thumb slides affectionately across his lips and he places the softest kiss to the corner of Suna's mouth, so sweet that the middle blocker swears he could melt at the contact.

He couldn't stop the fond smile that blooms on his lips even if he wanted to, wouldn't be able to stop his palpable joy from leaking out even if he was a stronger man.

"I toldja ta wear chapstick, babe." Suna hums contentedly as his boyfriend peppers every inch of his face with soft kisses.

"Mmm, I live to see Atsumu suffer."

"Yeah, okay, just as long as yer secondary agenda is takin' care a' yer lips. They're gettin' all dry an' cracked," and yet Osamu kisses him anyway, all sweet and slow just like he likes it, gentle hand rubbing small circles into his hip done. Suna's sure Osamu can feel his gleeful smile barely contained. He's also sure that Atsumu is miming gags behind them.

Suna ignores Atsumu, stroking a hand up and down his boyfriend's back contentedly, enjoying the warmth of smooth skin under the calluses of his fingertips. With a gentle grip, Suna pulls Osamu into his orbit, looping his arms around an impossibly slim waist. Dear god, he's impossibly proportioned and it's so _hot-_

Osamu startles away, regrettably so, at Atsumu letting their single grocery bag fall to the floor obnoxiously. The clattering sound has his boyfriend jolting against him, pout re-materializing as he sticks out his tongue.

"Great, four more days a' this shit," Atsumu grumps as he stomps away like a child.

"Ya fuckin' obnoxious bitch," Osamu shoots back, and the middle blocker preemptively draws him closer sensing an argument (and likely a following fistfight) fast approaching. Suna sighs, far more fond than he would have liked, as he drops his head to Osamu's neck and noses at his jawline.

Yeah, the Miya twins are definitely going to be the death of him, but he thinks it'll be a good one.  
  


\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha oh my god i'm a horrible author-chan i know ಥ∀ಥ ! i've been struggling with some things lately and i haven't been managing to latch onto any of my non-one shot books. i'm so sorry for the wait, i know it's been almost two weeks now T^T !! 
> 
> in other news, i really wanted to write a chapter from an outside point of view (also i needed an excuse to write osuna >:)) so i hope you enjoyed it even though it mostly focused on the relationship dynamics between Suna, Atsumu, and Osamu. also i just thought i'd give you some happy times because we only have a few more chapters and shit about to get FUCKED UP for the Miya twins (i thought they deserved some soft days uwu).
> 
> anyway, thank you so much for your support and sticking with me luvs T^T <3 ! i'm so excited for the ending of this story, honestly. i thrive on chaos. 
> 
> as always, have a lovely day/night and i'll see you in the next chapter luvs~! <3


	27. i love ya love ya love ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have...really small areolas?"

Everything is chaos. Atsumu can't even fathom where he fits into it all.

The moment he steps into the palace, he's being swarmed by people in a panic, Kiko among them, her expression more drawn than usual (if that's even possible). A man picks at his hair as if there's something wrong with it, a woman with honey-brown hair is talking his ear off, Kiko stands in front of him like a stern parent about to scold him for missing curfew.

"You're way behind on Coronation prep because of your trip home, so you'd better be ready to spend the majority of your next few days in dressing rooms," is her fantastic opening line - Atsumu wrinkles his nose at the mere idea, wincing as a particularly sharp yank on his hair suffices as his welcome home.

"It was a mistake not to bring you back earlier, but we can't do anything about that now. You still need to get your suit fitted and we only have two weeks to do it. And before you ask," she begins when she sees his mouth part around soundless syllables. "Kiyoomi is busy. You'll have to catch up with him later."

Atsumu feels like pouting so he does, pushing out his bottom lip and scrunching his eyebrows - this is not what he wanted to come back to. He _wanted_ to come back to his Omi and give him kisses and hug him really tight and do all the happy sappy things he wants that he had to live without for _two whole weeks._ Instead, he's getting poked and prodded and he's barely through the doorway.

Realistically, he knows that huffing will do nothing for him, but he also knows that he's one hundred percent grumpy and about to be tossed around like a ragdoll for the next few hours. Not exactly _fun_ times. And he _wants_ his OmiOmi. Atsumu becomes a full-scale brat when he doesn't get what he wants.

"An' what if I don't wanna?" That was definitely the wrong thing to say because Kiko suddenly whips around, the clacking of shiny black heels abruptly ceasing. Dark eyes meet his with such intensity that Atsumu thinks he can feel her watching his thoughts like a movie.

"Well, you don't really have a choice, do you?"

Atsumu swallows his protests, the words dying on his tongue as he follows along like a dog on a leash, unable to break free. Kiko is much like Kiyoomi in many ways - cold, chilly, detached at times. The big difference lies in the fact that, no, Kiko absolutely will not cave to Atsumu's rendition of puppy dog eyes and his pouty lips. That's the point where they diverge. That's the point where Atsumu loses any leverage he has.

"It's three right now, so you'll be with Asahi for your suit until six and then go to Terushima for your hair," Kiko says matter-of-factly as though Atsumu has any idea who either of those people are. "We'll break at eight for dinner which, I know, is a little late, but you're a big boy, you'll live."

"I-"

"After that, I decided to be nice to you and give you the rest of the evening since I know you just got back. But _tomorrow,_ you have a long day ahead of you, so don't be up to late with Kiyoomi," Atsumu almost chokes, tripping on his own feet to keep up with Kiko - damn, for a woman who has such a blunt mouth, she sure manages to keep a straight face.

" _You_ bein' nice ta _me_? Unheard of-"

"If you really want me to take it back that bad, I can tell Kora to move up your appointment to nine-"

" _No,_ no I'm sorry," whenever Atsumu used to snark his mother, she would tell him that, someday, someone was going to bite back and he wasn't going to like the outcome. He can only assume she was talking about this situation. "I'll be all cooperative an' shit."

"Good, because I've dealt with a lot of bullshit today and I don't need yours on top of it all."

For the first time since he'd met her, Kiko shows her human side, the weariness in her voice seemingly going unmasked. Whether it's because she's not bothering to hide it or just doesn't have the energy to, Atsumu isn't quite sure, but she sounds tired. And he has to admit that he actually does feel a _little_ bad - guilt was never an emotion he thought he'd feel in respect to Kiko, and yet she manages to pull one over on him again.

"Okay, Carla, Haruto, let him be for the moment," Kiko waves a hand, and the man who was previously intending to scar his scalp peels away, hands held up in surrender as if her making him leave is a great injustice. The woman who obviously had something _very_ important to tell Haruto follows like she's attached by a fishing line.

Atsumu continues to follow Kiko through the marble hallways of the Sakusa's palace until they reach one of the tea rooms (Atsumu wasn't even aware they had those before) now set up as a makeshift tailor's office. Multiple full-length mirrors force Atsumu to stare himself in the face, despite the neat stacks of fabrics in a hundred shades of gray, scraps still litter the floor, the occasional pin hiding under a disregarded fold. Atsumu treads carefully, paranoid in spite of the soles of his sneakers.

Among the chaos, there is a man, a towering man with broad shoulders and shoulder-length brown hair thrown into a bun as he fiddles with a suit jacket hanging on a mannequin's torso. He wears a yellow sweater under a hoodie, the edge of which has pins sticking out of it every which way - Atsumu fears for the safety of his fingers if he feels a draft. When he notices Kiko and Atsumu's entrance, he lifts his head and regards them with the most genial smile.

"Osamu, meet Asahi Azumane. He's the leading tailor in the country and he made the trip out here specifically for you so...be nice to him or I'll yell at you," Kiko gestures broadly at the man who looks too big to be handing such delicate things as pins and stitches. Asahi just smiles wider as if he's completely used to being labeled off as a threat due to his size - he's only an inch or two taller than Atsumu, but his presence is imposing.

Atsumu nods stiffly.

"Hi, it's nice to meet you," Asahi extends a hand and Atsumu takes it, feeling out of place. It's not like he's never been to a tailor before or anything, but his family never placed enough of an emphasis on aesthetics to have him and his brother sit through it all that often (Osamu always played the good son, willingly getting stuck by needles for hours on end. Let's just say that Atsumu harbored no such compliance). "I've never met a prince before!"

Atsumu does his best to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Nice ta meetcha too. An' ya don't gotta think a' me like that," Atsumu knows that the idea of _royalty_ catches a lot of people off-guard, like, for some reason, they have to be perfect around him - look, if he wasn't forcibly not allowed to, Atsumu would sit on the couch eating popcorn and watching reality TV for hours on end. He's really not one to judge.

"Humble, that's nice," Asahi rumbles. If Kiyoomi was here, he would laugh.

"Well, I'll leave you two in peace," Kiko says as though she's not about ready to run away to her next responsibility. "Just make sure you guys are finishing up by six. We've got a schedule to keep." She eyes Atsumu more than she does Asahi, and the urge to outburst wells up in the young prince.

Instead, he bites his tongue with a scowl as he watches her head out the door, closing it behind her.

"You can get undressed behind that screen or right here, whatever's most comfortable for you," Atsumu startles at the sound of Asahi's voice.

 _Oh shit._ That's the memory about being to a tailor that Atsumu had conveniently repressed. The undressing part. Can't get a fitted suit if they don't know his measurements. Can't get his measurements taken if he's still fully clothed. Stellar.

Asahi must assume his silence is for a completely different reason because he suddenly flushes and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as if he'd just propositioned Atsumu.

"Sorry, I know that was super sudden. But three hours isn't really a lot for the kind of work I do," he explains hastily, Atsumu almost feels bad that his mind is so stuck on something else that he barely has the words to reassure the man. "I wasn't trying to sound rude or...blunt or anything-"

"No, no yer good," Atsumu chokes out. "Omi's the bluntest person I know. Yer like a...breath a' fresh air." He smiles kindly with a nod.

_Okay, excuses, ya gotta million of 'em. Just needa dig up one little excuse ta get out of this...that can't be that bad, right? What can I say without makin' my body seem real unappealin'? Anythin' related ta the dick area is outta the question-_

"Uh, Prince Osamu, are you okay?" _Shit._ "If you're not comfortable behind the screen you can always-"

"I don't like people seein' my nipples," _is the fuckin' best ya can come up with on the spot? Yer s'posed ta be good at lyin'. Great, now he's gonna think yer a fuckin' weirdo._ But he might as well see it through. Asahi doesn't seem like a dumb guy. Now that he's thrown himself nipples-first into this lie, he has to take it all the way. "Or really my chest in general. Makes me uncomfortable. So...I can just like...get a suit from a store or somethin'..."

Asahi looks at him borderline sadly, like a dejected puppy dog who's confused as to why you're not calling him a good boy. Atsumu winces through the guilt that makes itself at home in his ribcage - _all this fer a fuckin' birthmark._

"Sorry..." he apologizes as best he can, eyes scanning the floor.

"No, don't...be sorry," the sadness turns to abject confusion, almost laced with suspicion though, being the nice guy he is, Asahi is clearly trying to hide it. "Do you think there's a way we can...work around that?"

"Uh...no?" Atsumu squeaks out.

"Prince Osamu...I'm really sorry to ask this," _I'm so screwed, I'm so screwed, I'm so screwed._ "But are you embarrassed because of your proportions?" _No, hell no! I'm hot as fuck._

He's taking a lot of bullets for the real Osamu these days, his pride being one of them as he chews it up and swallows it.

"Yes," he nods gravely. He's never been a great actor, but it seems to suffice.

"I have..." _massive tits,_ his brain supplies, unable to shut off his twisted brand of humor even for this precarious situation. He bites his tongue to stop the laugh that bubbles up on his tongue at his immature-teenage-boy-ass joke. "Really small areolas?"

Asahi looks at him strangely, expression twisted into something Atsumu doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of sorting out as he says slowly,

"I see."

-

Atsumu, as a matter of fact, did not get to see his husband at dinner because Kiyoomi already ate. But that was no matter, because Atsumu knew exactly where to find the pretty Sakusa prince. He was where he always is when he's not working out or required to be doing anything: their bedroom.

It's about the only place in the palace that is bathed in complete and total solitude, the only place that waitstaff and cleaning personnel don't enter without knocking. Kiyoomi uses it like his own personal oasis. Atsumu can sympathize. It's become his favorite place in the palace as well just by virtue of the fact that he can almost always find Kiyoomi there.

"Omi!"

Atsumu doesn't so much leap to hug his husband as he does crush him. He flops heavily across Kiyoomi's torso with the full weight of his body, chest to chest so that he can feel rather than hear his husband's heartbeat reverberating against his own. He sighs with utter contentment, breathing in Kiyoomi's scent and feeling like he's finally _home_.

Being with Kiyoomi feels stupidly right, like this is his default state and he's only just discovering it now, feels like he's meant to be here, using this man as a human pillow and listening to his heartbeat like music. He wouldn't have it any other way, not even if the world was crumbling and it was all he could do was lay here.

"I missed ya."

There's silence from the man above him. It's so deep and unabiding that Atsumu could almost be convinced he's cuddling up next to a corpse if he wasn't tapping his fingers against Kiyoomi's side in rhythm with his heartbeat.

"Oh did you?" When Kiyoomi finally speaks, it's subdued and dangerous, like a preemptive warning that Atsumu is too stupid to pick up on. A shiver of dread ripples down each notch of his spine, his eyes once closed now shoot open and focus intently at a spot on the wall as he awaits his husband's next words.

They're worse than he could've hoped for.

"Because you looked like you were having a lot of fun with _Suna._ "

_Oh shit._

"Omi-" Atsumu bolts up, pushing himself to hover over his husband in all the man's weary glory.

Taking in Kiyoomi for the first time after two weeks never feels redundant. His cheeks are flushed a splotchy red, probably from being poked and prodded by makeup artists all day, his lips are just as pretty and pink as ever, and his eyes are still bottomless pits of light, so dark and greedy and gorgeous that Atsumu would drown in them most willingly.

As always, he's deadpan as he brings up his phone to fill the space between them, the brightness of the display harsh against the dull moonlight that filters through an open window. On-screen appears a familiar video, slightly off-kilter, bathed in a filter that paints the world peachy-pink.

"Osamu sent me this four days ago with the caption, 'Your husband kissed my boyfriend, I'll see you in court motherfucker'," Kiyoomi says flatly.

Dangerous, every word is so dangerous and Atsumu has absolutely no idea if this is a joke or if his husband is genuinely angry.

 _Panic regardless!_ His brain screams. Like the child he is, he abides and goes into full shutdown of all logic.

"Omi! Why didn'tcha talk ta me when he sent it ta ya?!" He shouldn't, but lightly slaps his husband's muscular pec - he'll feel it up later.

"Because I didn't want to argue with you over the phone-"

" _No, no no no no,_ baby I don't wanna argue with ya! Seriously, it's not what it looks like!"

 _IF YOU WEREN'T PANICKING BEFORE, YOU ARE NOW,_ his brain trips over itself painfully.

Atsumu collapses down on his elbows, running his palms from his husband's jawline to his shoulder and back in what is supposed to resemble a soothing gesture, meant to placate. If it has the intended effect, Atsumu has absolutely no idea. Kiyoomi's expression stays flat save for a raised eyebrow.

He says nothing, pretty lips sealed shut. Atsumu wants to kiss him until he talks, coax the words from his tongue, but it's a right place, right time sort of thing and now is neither of those. He's on the edge of being in a _lot_ of trouble, might as well not give Kiyoomi another reason to be mad at him.

"Is this the kinda eerily silent where yer aboutta ignore me fer a really long time 'cause yer mad at me or the kina eerily silent where yer aboutta murder me an' hide my body where no one'll ever find it?"

Kiyoomi cocks an eyebrow - damningly cute and simultaneously terrifying.

"Which kind do you want it to be?"

Atsumu pushes out his lips and allows his eyes to wander as if he has to think about it at all.

"...The kind where yer not mad at me andja gimme lotsa kisses an' hugs 'cause I love ya love ya love ya?" Batting his eyelashes, he smiles sickly sweet. There's a pause, the slight narrowing of beautiful obsidian eyes, something tugs at the corners of full lips.

"And give me one reason why I shouldn't be mad at you," a smirk, an unabashed simper, and Atsumu just _knows_ he got played like the lovesick fool he is.

"Oh my god, yer totally fuckin' with me," with a heavy sigh, he rolls to the side, an attempt to escape despite knowing he'll be running right back, but he doesn't need to. Kiyoomi follows him like he's being strung along, flopping on top of Atsumu in a mirrored gesture.

"Obviously," Kiyoomi's dopey grin is more in his eyes than anything else, but Atsumu sees and worships it all the same - all that perches in his lips a soft, pleased smile. "Of course I'm not mad at you. I get that you have to do things some times that you don't want to-"

"I totally didn't wanna Omi! I never wanna kiss Sunarin's chappy-ass lips again-" Atsumu's words come to a screeching halt on his tongue as Kiyoomi presses a single index finger to his lips.

"Okay, but we're not talking about it either."

Atsumu nods like the dutiful husband he is.

"Right."

Atsumu brings his arms up to loop around his husband's neck in tandem with Kiyoomi thumbing at his bottom lip. He resists that urge to grin like an idiot despite knowing that Kiyoomi can definitely see it written all over his face - it's probably infected his eyes by now but he hardly has the mind to care when Kiyoomi is looking at him so damn softly.

"So...now yer gonna tell me how much ya missed me an' thatcha love me love me love me?" He prompts, drumming sot rhythm's against his husband's broad shoulders as he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Mmm," Kiyoomi hums, leaning in to bump their noses together gently. "No, I'm gonna re-train myself to tune out your whining."

" _Omi!_ "

There's an exasperated huff above him and he un-scrunches his nose enough to pout. Kiyoomi hovers above him, ethereal as always under the influence of soft moonlight, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in this moment and make it eternal, draw it out as long as it will go.

"Fine," Kiyoomi breaks the silence, the word holding no edge as he lowers down to his forearms and whispers, "I _did_ miss you...a little," _a lot,_ Atsumu mouths, calling his bluff. He earns himself a trademark Kiyoomi eye-roll, but it's well worth the price.

"And I do love you," he sinks down to place a feather-light kiss to Atsumu's right temple. The contact makes him shiver pleasantly and a happy sigh escapes his lips with a smile. "Love you," another kiss, this time to his cheek. "Love you."

The final kiss is planted squarely on his mouth and Atsumu throws himself headfirst into the feeling of his husband's plush lips, the sweet taste that lingers on his tongue. He drowns himself in the familiar warmth, the delicious feeling that somehow makes his head spin while keeping him feeling safe.

He truly melts into the kiss, sighing and drawing Kiyoomi impossibly closer by the shoulders, wrapping himself in the comfort of being back where he belongs.

"Ya fuckin' better," Atsumu mumbles between them as they part, the words said against Kiyoomi's lips between shallow, chaste kisses. "Y'know, I hadta tell the tailor, Asahi, that I had tiny nipples so I could stay married ta ya."

"Mmm, I'm sure that left a dent in your fragile fetus ego," another kiss pressed to pouting lips. Kiyoomi fixes him with an expression positively dripping cloying sarcasm. "Would it help if I told you you have perfect nipples?"

Atsumu rolls his eyes and lolls his head back and forth with mock indecision before finally deciding on,

"...Yeah."

"Baby," if Atsumu wasn’t whipped like cream, he would punch this man in the face right about now. "You have the most beautiful nipples I have ever seen on a person. You have perfect nipples."

There's a pause, and Atsumu makes the mistake of thinking that could possibly be the end of it. The next words out of Kiyoomi's mouth are,

"Your face, on the other hand-" so really it's very justified when Atsumu sends his husband spilling into the hardwood floor with a pillow to the face.

"I _hatecha._ "

"You didn't even let me finish," Kiyoomi pushes himself up from the floor and folds his forearms under his chin. Oh, he's so setting himself up to get his ego crushed, but his husband is tilting his head so prettily so that his curls fall over his eyes, and Atsumu just can't resist the temptation.

"Okay, fine, what were ya gonna say?"

"It's hideous."

" _You absolute bastard-_ "

Atsumu's indignation dies on his tongue as Kiyoomi brings their lips together again with absolutely no regard for the awkward angle. He knows he shouldn't take this bullshit because his reputation of being an annoying brat under any and all circumstances won't withstand it, but who is he to put up a fight when Kiyoomi's lips taste like his favorite fruit-flavored chapstick? That's like turning down food when you're hungry. And Atsumu is fucking starving.

Atsumu is a weak, _weak_ man, and Kiyoomi Sakusa knows it.

"Mmm...you think I could win every argument this way?" Kiyoomi smiles at him from the floor - one of those pretty genuine ones that Atsumu wishes he had a framed picture of.

"Well, technically ya didn't win because we weren't arguin'."

"So...yes, then."  
  
  


\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ಥ∀ಥ i actually updated less than a week apart, are you proud of me? 
> 
> anyway, we're getting pretty close to the end now and you know what that means: a lot of shit is about to get real intense and everyone's gonna suffer. that being said, i'm really excited for it because i've had some of these scenes in my head on repeat for months and i'll finally have an excuse to write them!
> 
> as always, thank you so much for your continued support! ilysm and have a lovely day/night~!


	28. in my defense, ya weren't s'posed ta find out - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We found them in the bathroom,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is basically 7k of Osamu Panicking™

The dining hall is massive.

It's the kind of place that would have been terrifying to Osamu as a kid - too big, too open, too many cracks and crevices to get lost in - with its sky-high ceilings and gigantic columns that dwarf his six-foot-something boyfriend and make him look inconsequential at best.

Now it feels like a normal venue, a terrifying, anxiety-inducing, soon-to-be-filled-with-more-people-than-he-can-count venue, but a normal one nonetheless. In fact, it doesn't even seem all that big in comparison to the chapel they were just at for Kiyoomi's coronation - _his_ _husband's_ coronation. Technically speaking.

But still, he's nervous, biting his tongue and grinding his teeth because way too much rests on this event. The balance of it is unnerving, like trying to perch a skyscraper on a thumbtack.

One slip up and their non-physical lives are as good as over.

So, Osamu does what he's good at, what he always does when things are getting stressful and he needs somewhere to channel his pent-up nerves. He nitpicks. 

"Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?"

Their mother is going to have a heart attack. Osamu might be having a heart attack. How should he know?

"Okay, no one is going to care that we're both wearing gray suits, babe," the Miya's have never been obsessed with appearances, but there was a year for their birthday when thought (admittedly unwisely) that it would be funny to dress up in identically colored suits and play the 'guess who's who' game with their guests. You can imagine how badly received that was. They've never been allowed to duplicate outfits since.

"Ma. Ma's gonna care," Osamu fixes his boyfriend with a dead-serious stare. "She's gonna be _pissed._ "

"This might not have happened if you guys agreed to sit down with tailors," Suna smiles at a foreign diplomat none of them know the name of as if they're old friends - what a good performance he puts on. Osamu considers how bad it would be for him if he just walked out the doorway they're standing in right now, skipped out on this whole coronation after-party and ran all the way home.

This is the last step. After this, they're golden, right? After this, all he has to do is live and love his boyfriend and exist in the world. It's just one night - he can do this.

"Yeah, but guess what happens when we gotta sit down with tailors?" Atsumu is pouting at the crowd of people as though each and every one of them has wronged him. "We gotta get naked. An' naked means birthmarks an' birthmarks mean press scandal so..."

"It'll be fine, your mom will survive," there's a hand at the small of his back and Osamu scowls - Suna fucking Rintarou and his top-tier manipulation skills. All through high school, he didn't study _shit_ for tests but when it comes to learning Osamu's weaknesses, he might as well be an honor student. "It's just a few hours anyway."

He is one hundred percent not convinced that this night is going to go smoothly.

"Okay just...I dunno, Rin, stay away from my Ma an' botha ya stay away from each _other_ after the speeches an' shit are over," he annunciates each word.

"Shouldn't be hard. Your mom hates me anyway," Osamu rolls his eyes but, honestly, it's hard to argue with that. I mean, their parents weren't exactly jazzed about the idea of them going to a public school in the first place, but throw in Suna being the unabashed garbage person he is and you have the recipe for a very dissatisfied mother.

"She doesn't _hatecha-_ "

"No, yeah, she hates'im," Atsumu confirms, unafraid of the truth. Suna shrugs and raises his eyebrows. "But on the bright side, she'll be all distracted with me an' Omi so she won't even be payin' attention ta ya. She gotta see how her second favorite son is doin' after all."

"Yah, okay," normally, he would just _love_ to get into yet another dispute about which son is the absolute favorite of the family, but after sitting for three hours, he's actually quite excited to make what would normally be boring rounds - greeting foreign diplomats, thanking them for making the trip. It's not even really his job (it's not even his country) but it's customary as "Osamu's" brother. "Meet me back here at ten."

Atsumu gives him a lazy salute before - like the dignified prince he is - bouncing over to the table where overly expensive food is laid out in mouth-watering displays. Osamu's eye twitches - Atsumu is going to ruin his reputation. Just like he never trusted his brother with his things when they were kids he barely trusts him with his name.

In all honesty, Osamu's more than nervous for the three hours that are about to ensue. There are just so many places where it could all come crashing to the ground, their secret revealed in a matter of seconds. And he was just as on-edge during the coronation itself. In fact, he doesn't think he'll stop having sky-high levels of anxiety until all this is over and done with and he's back in his own country in his own bed.

Every second spent side-by-side with Atsumu is another chance for them to get called out like the frauds they are. Not to mention the absolutely chaos there would be if the public did happen to find out. That would be like dropping a nuke into the middle of their family. It would totally destroy-

"Babe," Osamu's eyes dart up to Suna, who stands there with his lips molded in his typical 'I'm-smiling-so-you-think-I'm-approachable-but-don't-touch-me' smile, usually reserved for the press. "I can feel your anxiety. It's having the opposite effect of convincing people you're not hiding anything."

Osamu wants to protest, but he feels it - the rigid line of his shoulders, the tense of his muscles ready to spur into action at a moment's notice. He feels the way his eyes flick to every person regardless of name or title wondering if they're seeing right through him and he's going to wake up tomorrow with his name in the headlines.

So he breathes out a sigh because he's nothing if not honest - well, mostly, honest - and settles his hand around Suna's waist, forcibly relaxing.

"See? Now you look like, forty-three percent less shady."

"Forty-three? Yer fuckin' kiddin' me."

"I don't lie to you," Suna nods lightly as camera flashes serenade them. "You can do better."

Osamu scoffs, but it's breathy because his eyes are wandering up and around the elaborate, gold dining hall in an attempt to latch onto anything but the sheer amount of people in the room. It's suffocating. Like he's walking a tightrope barely suspended above a pit of deadly spikes, each one a different headline if this night takes a southern turn.

"Baby," Suna whispers when they escape the cameras and seek out their table near the front of the room. "You're thinkin' really loud right now. I need you to take a deep breath."

Osamu nods - he will forever take for granted the way Suna knows him, knows exactly what to say to avoid coddling his delicate ego. It keeps him grounded, stable on his feet when the world is shaking under him.

Two hours of speeches, and an hour of random socialization. That's all he has to get through and then he's (more or less when you're living your life as your twin) free. He's got this - well, like, he doesn't, not in the slightest, but if Atsumu can shove food down his throat in the face of adversity, then the least Osamu can do is breathe.

It probably looks like he's trying to rob the room of its oxygen when he sits down at their table - thankfully it's been limited to their family. Osamu doesn't think he could make it through two hours of sitting with random people, trying to keep up a poorly maintained facade.

"Looks like we got here before your parents, at least," Suna eyes the twins' mother and father talking to king Sakusa, probably in congratulations, as cameras pick up their every slight movement. Osamu doesn't quite understand what the point of barring paparazzi from the coronation is if they're just going to show up at the celebration afterward, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

"I know these'r like, s'posed ta be appetizers but they're really fuckin' good," Atsumu, the heathen, sets down his plate piled high with hor d'oeuvres that he should definitely not be filling up on right before they're about to eat. He acts like he didn't grow up on the same kinds of food. Osamu has always wondered whether that's a charming point or a failing. "Like whatever the hell this is. 'S basically like fancy crab on fancy Ritz crackers. Fuckin' awesome."

"Tsumu, yer s'posed ta be actin' like me," Osamu hisses out where he sits next to his brother.

" _What?_ I _am._ If anythin' this is incredibly in-character fer ya," he ignores all sense of logic as he stuffs his face unabashedly. "Y'always liked eatin'."

"Not like a grew up in a _barn,_ " are the last words he gets out through gritted teeth before his parents are approaching the table settling into their seats, polite smiles wearing thin.

"'Samu, darlin', we're gonna be havin' dinner soon. It ain't all that polite of ya ta be stuffin' yer face beforehand," his mother scolds gently, and Osamu sends his brother a sharp look, hoping it communicates something along the lines of _'Fix this you uncultured bastard.'_

"Uh...sorry Ma," Atsumu swallows down the bite of food in his mouth and takes a gratuitous gulp of water to wash it down, leaving his the only touched glass at the table. "Didn't getta have anythin' fer breakfast 'cause Kiko had me runnin' all over the place ta get ready."

Their mother just shakes her head, chuckling lightly while their father, stoic as ever, slightly furrows his eyebrows in what is instantly recognizable as _the look._ Osamu used to quiver at that look, still tenses every time he sees it. Such a fact would be a dead giveaway if not for Suna's hand resting gently on his knee under the table.

He roots himself to the point of contact, breathing in, relaxing his shoulders, and then, for the final cherry on top of what he likes to think of as a quality Atsumu impression, calmly reaches over to his brother's plate and blindly steals a piece of food.

Atsumu raises two accusing eyebrows at him and he shrugs in what he hopes is a way that screams, _'I've run out of fucks to give because I am the lesser twin.'_

Osamu will admit he was right about one thing, though. It really does just taste like crab on Ritz crackers. Not that he's complaining.

"Uh, that was mine, dearest brother of mine."

"Not anymore, ya scrub." Atsumu sneers in response to the jest.

"Don't call me a scrub, ya scrub-"

"Boys, please mind yer manners," their mother breathes in deeply, words whispered behind the guard of a smile as Kiyoomi approaches their table looking cleaned up in a suit. Osamu saw him less than an hour ago (which means Atsumu did too) and yet his brother is lighting up like a Christmas tree as if they haven't seen each other in years. "Hello Prince Kiyoomi- Sorry, King," their mother shakes her head and smiles. "I'm so sorry."

Kiyoomi is clearly trying for a smile, but it looks strangled from his lips.

"There's no need to apologize."

"Hey baby," Atsumu grins like a child.

"Samu," Kiyoomi nods and, goddamn if he isn't smooth about it. Whatever else you can say about Kiyoomi Sakusa, he certainly isn't the worst actor in the world. Atsumu, on the other hand, has the unmistakable look of fear written in plain text in his eyes. He grins through it damn near aggressively.

"Why're ya here?"

"Just thought I would greet your parents since I missed them at the coronation."

"It was pretty hectic, wasn't it?" Their mother and father stand in unison, but both twins stay seated, hesitating for a moment as they cast each other a communicative glance. "Well, it's lovely ta talk ta ya again. I'd like ta say congratulations on yer coronation. I'm just sorry it had ta happen the way it did."

She crooks an index finger when neither of the twins makes any move to stand. As if being pulled along by an invisible force, both boys trip to their feet with the grace of a dog trying to walk on water, bumping the table with their knees in the process.

A sideways glance confirms that Suna _is,_ in fact, holding in his trademark obnoxious snicker, evident in the way his lips curl into an almost-smile, adam's apple bobbing with the effort of swallowing down his laughter. It's oddly attractive.

"I am too." There's a moment of silence that feels heavy in which Osamu's brain is still catching up to the fact that- _Oh yeah, he's kind cause his dad's dyin'._ He resists the urge to cringe, directing the tension inward.

"Well, it's lovely seein' ya again, Kiyoomi. Have ya met Suna yet?" The sudden change of subject has Suna replacing that pretty half-smirk with his plastic smile - Osamu mournes his sincerity.

"I don't believe I have."

"Well, ya probably know he's, uh, _with_ 'Tsumu," almost everything about that sentence makes Osamu wish he was listening to the sounds of metal scraping against metal instead of standing here now. "He's an old family friend."

"It's nice to meet you," Kiyoomi extends a hand, Suna takes it, the thick tension that has laid itself heavy across the conversation grows more powerful by the second.

"Likewise," his boyfriend drawls lazily. "I trust yer taking care of 'Samu?"

There's an audible, perfectly synchronized intake of breath by all four of the Miya's. Silence settles in the cracks it leaves, sticking to Osamu's skin like a thin film, sending a shiver down his spine - god if there isn't anything worse than politics and diplomacy.

To everyone's surprise, Atsumu is their saving grace.

"He's takin' care a' me just fine R...in," the last part of the sentence is choked out, Atsumu clearly not used to calling Suna by the abbreviation of his first name - to Atsumu, he's always been Sunarin, to Osamu, he's always been Rin. That's just how it is. "Right O- Kiyoomi?"

Atsumu looks like he's about to pass out. Osamu certainly shares the sentiment.

Interlaced hands retreat, grateful, back to the sides of their owners as Kiyoomi utters a simple, solid, "Yes." Osamu is almost dreading the departure of his brother's husband, if only because all three of them are about to get chewed out by the twins' mother after this for multiple reasons - their behavior, the gray suits.

"I'll stop bothering you now," Osamu settles back into his seat with a sigh - god he's already drained and dinner hasn't even started yet. "But it was nice talking to you again, your majesties. And nice meeting you as well, Suna."

A small bow suffices in place of a more interesting exiting line, a lingering almost-smile directed toward Atsumu (no surprise there), before he's taking his leave, and Osamu doesn't know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or keep holding his breath for the reprimand that is sure to come.

"Ya can't say somethin' like that ta a prince," he hisses. Suna just raises a bemused eyebrow.

"Why? You were going to if I didn't." Goddammit. His boyfriend is too smart for him.

-

_"Help me understand what happened."_

_The twins are as they always are: Osamu sits, complacent, hands folded in his lap while Atsumu plasters on a glare for both of them, the face of defiance where Osamu caves too quickly. As it always has been, as it always will be, Atsumu is the shield._

_"Boys, I can't help ya if ya don't talk ta me," their mother is just trying to be kind, gentle, to understand before their father steps in uses harsh punishment in substitute of soft words. "I don't wantcha ta get in trouble fer somethin' ya don't need ta. I'll talk ta the principal but I can't help ya if I don't know what's goin' on-"_

_"Why is Samu here then?"_

_Both Osamu and his mother halt in their tracks. Warm eyes hold skepticism as they look Atsumu up and down in all his bruised-knees, black-eyed, band-aided fourteen-year-old glory. They stick on his left eye damn near swollen shut, the Hello Kitty bandaid pasted across the bridge of his nose._

_"Yer tellin' me yer brother had nothin' ta do with this?"_

_Atsumu shakes his head steadfastly, determination in his eyes growing tenfold._

_It's in times like these that Osamu loses all hold on who his brother is. Times when Atsumu's inherent narcissism takes a backseat to some unknown sense of duty he seemingly feels - Osamu doesn't understand where he comes from. He's the mature brother. He's the older brother - in spirit, at least. So why is Atsumu the one taking responsibility?_

_"That he wasn't even in the area when it happened?"_

_Another shake of the head. Mussed-up hair frizzes from the dry February air, and Osamu is flicking through all the possible motives behind this sudden show of selflessness._

_Why now? What is the point? Atsumu has been supplied with every chance to throw him under the bus and yet..._

_"So then. If Samu had absolutely nothin' ta do with this, how'd ya end up with yer eye like that?" Their mother folds her arms, nothing but compassion in the downturn of her lips. But Osamu can feel the doubt manifesting in the slump of her shoulders to contrast._

_"Korin called me stupid so I punched'im in his stupid face," Atsumu's only good at acting when he's being a stubborn dipshit. "Totally deserved it too."_

_Their mother looks as disappointed as she is proud, mouth held in a strange curve as if a half-smile, half-frown. Both sorrowful and accepting. She heaves a heavy sigh, the weight of it matching that of the guilt that rests like a rock just beneath Osamu's sternum. He licks his lips as if his indecision will pass with the minuscule action._

_"Alright," is her only word._ _Singular, lonely, disappointed in both of them - in Atsumu for lying, Osamu for letting him._

_And Osamu can't take it. He can't take the mounting guilt that stacks in his chest like snow in an avalanche. It pools in his lungs, drowning out the space for breathable air until he feels the truth bubbling up on his tongue._

_"He's lying!_ _" He damn near screams, the outburst feeling wrong on his lips - he's the calm brother, the mature brother. "He's lying." He tries again at a whisper._

_There's a moment of strung silence - Atsumu regards him with wary eyes, wondering how Osamu's going to fuck up his well-constructed lie. No one will ask questions if Atsumu gets in a fistfight because Atsumu is aggressive and untamed and disobedient in the best of times._

_But Osamu..._

_"Korin was bein' a dick ta this kid so I told'im he was an..." Osamu tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it refuses to abide by his rules, knotting itself tighter in defiance. "Uncultured mumpsimus who doesn't know his ass from his mouth."_

_It felt good at the time._ At the time. 

_But now he watches his mother's face contort into that of such disappointment he can hardly bear to look at her. It hurts more than he'd imagined - god, Tsumu's been enduring this kind of soul-bearing punishment for years? What a wonder._

_"An' then he pushed me...so Tsumu pushed'im back," his voice trembles and Osamu wonders why he ever thought he was the strong twin, the "older" twin. Atsumu's a brat of the highest order, but when it really counts, he's dry-eyed and rooted in place._

_Silence hangs between them, Atsumu pouting in his direction, their mother darting her eyes between the twins. Osamu has never felt more ashamed of every time he teased Atsumu for being stupid and immature._

_Goddammit, why couldn't Atsumu just shut up and let him be the older brother? He's always let him before. Always let him take the blame when an expensive vase was broken while they were sock skating down marble halls, always thrown him under the bus when food went missing from the kitchen._

_But more importantly, why did Osamu_ let him?

_The words their mother says next are soft on her lips, some strange kind of fondness dancing, threading its way through the syllables._

_"I see."_

-

Dinner, as it turns out, arrives with no argument, no reprimand of their behavior to the newly instated _King_ Kiyoomi Sakusa. In fact, it arrives and passes with surprisingly little turmoil, despite what Osamu was so readily prepared for. 

She doesn't even talk about the gray suits. 

In fact, Osamu would even dare to call it _pleasant -_ well, as pleasant as something can be when you're sitting on your ass listening to mind-numbing speeches for two hours. But pleasant nonetheless. Pleasant _because_ it's boring. Pleasant because Osamu doesn't feel like his brain is about to explode at any second.

When the speeches wrap up, everyone stands as if on cue - Atsumu eventually gets the message (after Osamu kicks him in the shin three times) and stands to serenade the speaker off stage with applause. If their parents notice, they don't comment. Osamu never thought he'd be thankful for his father's lack of words, but amidst the chaos, the lack of input from his parents allows him to breathe. 

From then on, the esteemed guests of pricy name and origin settle into something of an ordered chaos - foreign diplomats immediately go for the newly appointed king (poor kid) likely hoping to get a jump on good relations with a new, malleable personality now at the head of the country, heads of state meet up with old allies, and the other scattered names make the rounds, handshakes and false smiles a satisfactory pastime. 

This, Osamu feels, is something he can handle, the kind of disorder he can keep under control without bursting a blood vessel or giving himself an aneurism. Suna's steady presence at his side only serves as a buffer for his anxiety. In fact, despite his general distaste for politics and talking and really interacting with the world at all, Suna does a surprising amount of the talking, and very well too. 

Osamu barely has to utter a word, which is probably a good thing considering Atsumu's much better at turning on the manners than Osamu is at turning them off. 

And it's peaceful (relatively) for a while. _For a while,_ being the operative part of that sentence.

There are fifty-six minutes left in the night when a waiter who can't be more than seventeen trips and spills six glasses of red wine on him. 

This isn't the first time a waiter or waitress has spilled food on him before - hazard of the job. He's never blamed anyone for it before. But it _is_ the first time he's ever been temporarily blinded by alcohol stinging his eyes. That part kind of sucks. 

Glass shatters at his feet and everything from his hair to his very expensive leather shoes are now stained burgundy red. He breathes in the strong, dizzying scent of alcohol and tries to smile through the throbbing sensation of his eyeballs.

"Oh my god," comes the waiter's voice in utter disbelief, a detached, broken sound. "Oh my god, you're a prince. I just spilled _so_ much wine on a prince. Oh my god. I am so sorry." 

When Osamu manages to open his eyes, his vision is stained pink and his eyelashes feel heavy and clumped together. 

"No," he says roughly, completely underestimating the drying effect of alcohol. Belatedly he processes the sound of sobbing and, secondly, that the sobbing is coming from the teenage girl in front of him. "No yer good. It's fine. Shit don't cry, it's just a suit."

As he should've done much earlier, Osamu presses his fingers together and wipes at his eyes. He holds out his hands in an attempt to placate, which really only seems to make things so much worse. Osamu feels like a total dick. 

"Oh my god I am-m so fire-red," the waiter hiccups. Osamu cringes at all the eyes on them. 

"No, no it's okay. Yer not gonna get fired," she definitely is and it's absolutely not his decision, but he just really needs her to stop crying. "Uh, shit, what's yer name?" 

"L-Lacy."

"Alright Lacy, I'll just talk ta yer boss'r somethin'-" he makes a strangled noise from the back of his throat, eyes darting to his boyfriend for help, which he receives little of considering Suna's barely holding back boisterous laughter. "Oh god...please stop cryin'..."

Lacy sniffles in loudly, digging at her eyes with the heels of her palms and trying to steady her breathing. Osamu feels shame claw at his chest - oh god he made a kid cry. 

"Okay, Lacy, I'mma just go get cleaned up. Uh, y'can just sit tight an' we'll get someone ta clean this up an' I'll be right back, 'kay?" He pulls out a chair for her at a random table - with his luck, the seat is probably reserved for the president of the United States or some shit like that. But he hardly has the mind to care. He just really needs her to calm down. 

"O-Okay," she weakly settles into the gold-trimmed chair - it's all Osamu can do to shake his head at the scattered camera clicks that can be heard among whispered conversation. 

"Okay...uh...just...stay here." 

He holds out his hands as he backs away, stealing Suna's eyes away from the scene and flicking his head in the direction of the door. Multiple people offer to help him on his way to the exit, but he turns them all down, really wishing this could be less of a scene than it currently is. He's sure Atsumu's in the crowd somewhere having the time of his life while he watches his brother flounder. Later he'll dwell on it. 

It's almost as soon as he starts walking that people fall back into the norm of not giving a shit what happens. Now that he's not making someone cry, he's no longer an interesting subject of their attention. Idle conversation resumes as they disappear again amongst the sea of people. 

When they're finally in the hallway, Osamu breathes a heavy sigh of relief - free at last from the possibility of discovery. He falls against the wall of the hallway, dejected and sapped of energy, bolding his mental note to talk to the company that employs the waitstaff later. They'll probably listen to him, right? Or they could tell him to fuck off and fire her anyway, which, though not _technically_ his fault, he'll still bear the brunt of the emotional debt for-

Familiar fingers tug at his wrists, pulling his hands away from where they rub incessantly at the bridge of his nose. 

"Babe, breathe," Suna coaxes, thumbing at his pulse points. "She's gonna be fine, you can talk to her boss later. And even if she gets fired, she's still young and shit. She's got plenty of time to find a less finicky job." It's a joke but Osamu can't stop the strangled bemoaning that scratches its way up his throat.

"If she gets fired it's totally my fault..."

"It's no one's fault, 'Samu," a spike of satisfaction runs down his spine at hearing his boyfriend say his actual name for the first time that night. "She tripped and you just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Honestly, she could've gotten a lot less lucky." 

"Please, darlin', explain ta me how this is at all _lucky._ " 

Suna rolls his eyes so far back in his skull it's giving Osamu a headache just looking at it. 

"Well, she could've gotten someone who doesn't have your _heart of gold_ like that duchess from Cambodia," Suna bumps their foreheads together before pulling them Osamu off the wall by the wrists. "C'mon. We'll get you cleaned up and get back and like...no one will even be thinking about it." 

That's totally a lie, but Osamu follows him limply, allowing his head to loll back and his eyes to close for a moment of much-needed peace. 

The men's bathroom is glossy, fancy, with a carpeted lobby - Osamu's seen hundreds like it before, but it still catches him off-guard that such luxury is expended on a place one might be in for less than three minutes to evacuate their bladder. He shakes his head of the thought as he watches his boyfriend loosen his tie and begin to unbutton his shirt. 

"Uh...what're ya doin'?" Osamu asks slowly as he watches his boyfriend shrug off his suit jacket and fully slide off his dress shirt, exposing sculpted muscles and pearly, blemishless skin. Self-control is a virtue, Osamu is pretty sure, which is why he licks his lips instead of his boyfriend's abs. "Rin, I'm all fer bathroom sex but this really doesn't seem like the time-"

"I'm giving you my suit, dumbass."

"What? Why?" 

Suna just turns to him with an absolutely dead expression. 

"Because yours smells like a vineyard," he says in monotone. "Now strip and get dressed." 

Osamu breathes in, knowing he's not going to win the argument that hasn't even started, while simultaneously questioning what good deed he possibly could've done in his past life to deserve Suna Rintarou. 

"An' yer planing ta...what? Go back in there half-naked?" Osamu snorts, not particularly minding the image in front of him but also knowing the kind of turmoil those perfect abs and sculpted pecs would create among the royal community. 

"I'm gonna stay in here, duh," Suna folds his arms and shrugs like it's the most obvious answer. "And you're going to come get me after. We'll work it out, but you're more important at this thing than I am." 

Osamu opens his mouth to protest, but cuts himself off at the fact that he'd be fighting a useless battle. It's true. Among a room of princes and presidents, a pro athlete is kind of the odd one out. Lips sealing together, he takes a long moment of deliberating on all the possible ways this could bite him in the ass - of which there are many - before relenting with a sigh and loosening his wine-soaked tie. 

"Ya know this is gonna be big on me, right?" Osamu says, a weak argument, as he strips from his suit and folds the wet fabric on the marble countertop of the sinks. "Yer like...three inches taller than me or somethin'. Fuckin' freak'a nature."

He could be wrong but Osamu could be convinced that the sound his boyfriend makes is a laugh and not a huff of derision.

"Would you rather wear a suit that's slightly too big for you or one that makes you smell like an alcoholic?" Suna hands him the dry clothes and he takes them, slipping the pants on quickly followed by the shirt and reveling in the smell of laundry detergent instead of the noxious fumes of wine that's probably way too expensive to be wasted on soiling his clothes. 

"Touché." 

Once fully clothed, Osamu breathes out a tired sigh. He can't help but wonder how disastrous the consequences would be if he were to just stay here for the rest of the night in here with his boyfriend. That's all he really wants to do, go home (which is an upscale hotel for the next few days before they can fly back to their own country) and snuggle with Suna and probably take a really long shower to detangle the knots from his muscles.

Instead, he's in a bathroom and smells like wine and he's about to go out and talk to politicians for another _hour-_

With a high-pitched whine, he outstretches his arms making a grabby motion with his hands. He's not normally this needy, but he feels utterly deprived. Of many things - his night, his boyfriend, his sanity. 

Suna obliges him with one of the softest smiles Osamu's ever seen on his boyfriend, looping strong arms around his waist and planting a firm kiss to his forehead. Osamu smiles what he's sure is a dopey grin - he could live in this moment forever. Private, alone, without the eyes of the world watching them as he indulges in his boyfriend's presence and basks in the glow-

"Uh...Prince Osamu?" 

But he doesn't get to. 

Osamu's head whips to the side lighting fast, probably slamming his boyfriend in the jaw with it - though the bruise that's definitely going to form is likely the least of both of their problems at the moment. 

Oh. So _this_ is how it bites him in the ass. 

"Uh...n-"

Two guards stand in the entrance to the bathroom, one looking utterly perplexed, the other tilting his head as if a different angle will help him figure out the situation any better. 

All four men stand in utter silence, and Osamu feels like he's drowning - unable to breathe or think about literally anything other than the two pairs of eyes staring into his soul, passing silent judgment on a name he hasn't belonged to him for months. Words don't come to mind, literally any of them. No moment has ever felt so still and unmoving in time. 

It feels like hours before any one of them speaks again, but when the silence breaks, it's cracks to reveal Osamu's worst nightmare.

"We...you know we have to...like, tell someone about this-"

"Or ya don't," Osamu croaks out helpfully, so close to passing out he can see the way the world spins, feel it swaying beneath his feet like a plank of wood suspended on a pinhead. "This seriously isn't what it looks like..."

A pause fills the air, all four of them all but statues standing in the middle of a bathroom. Osamu doesn't have any more words to say because it can really only get worse - is it worse to be caught cheating on your not-husband or the world realizing you're not even the person you claim to be? 

His heart is beating out of his chest as his brain floods with a kind of panic he's never experienced anywhere other than in his worst nightmares. This is worse than those. This has consequences, this has no ending. He can't wake up from this. 

"If we don't it's our asses on the line so..." 

It's with those, admittedly entirely valid, words that Osamu's world falls apart around him. 

He can only swallow roughly around the lump that situates itself in his throat as a firm hand wraps around his elbow and guides him out of the bathroom. Distantly, he hears Suna arguing with one of the guards - he wouldn't expect anything less from his equal parts stubborn and lazy boyfriend - but it's nothing but a shallow background noise. 

They're escorted into the hallway, Suna's hands shielding his dick despite his underwear, Osamu doing his best to keep up with the brisk pace the guard dragging him has set. He stumbles, mind hazy, barely able to keep up through the nausea that creeps up on him. All at once he feels dead and jittery, having lost all motivation to do much of anything while simultaneously still giving in to his natural instinct to look for any way out of this situation.

There is none. 

He should've known there would be a very inevitable end to this charade. And yet at its birth, he ignored its death written in stone with blissful ignorance. 

"Is this walk of shame really necessary?" Suna grumbles. It's lazy, but Osamu can hear the slight waver, the pause he takes to swallow between his words.

He doesn't receive a direct answer, just a cursory, "We're going to see your _boyfriend's husband._ " If they really needed any more confirmation as to what these guards' opinion of them is, it's all in the inflection of their tone, the obvious lilt that tells Osamu they've been demoted to the respect level of pond-scum in the minds of complete strangers. 

_He's not my husband,_ Osamu wants to scream. But it's all happening too fast and he can't _do anything about it._

The door to the dining hall opens and any attempt at discretion is immediately thrown out the window. Maybe it's because of the mostly naked man being towed around like a rag doll, maybe it's because the prince of an entire country looks like he just got caught with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar - I mean, he did, but not in the way they're surely all thinking. 

The entire room freezes over, time going with it.

Belatedly, shutter clicks and camera flashes serenade them like a symphony of preemptive judgment. 

For the first time in his life, the entire world has its eyes on Osamu and he doesn't know what to do next. There's no script to follow, no pre-memorized words to fall back on, no public apology in existence that could erase his naked boyfriend or the look of shame on his face from the permanent record books. 

This is it. This is him forever now. And he doesn't know what to do about it.

He feels like a kid again, sitting in front of his mother, admitting to a crime he almost let his brother take the fall for. He doesn't feel like the mature twin, the strong twin, the "older" twin. He's just him, which is the scariest thing of all. 

Pathetic. Weak. Useless. Hiding behind the veil of "the good son" and hoping his obedience is enough.

Atsumu gave him and out, sacrificed his entire world to give Osamu this one chance. And he fucked it up because of a stupid wine-stained suit. 

The overload of shame increases tenfold when his other worms her way through the crowd to look at him - she's wearing those same eyes. The eyes of disbelief, that say, _no, that's not my boy. My boy would never do anything like this._

"We found them in the bathroom," the guard explains weakly, as though ashamed of being the one to crack Osamu's life at the foundation - _you fucking should be,_ he doesn't say. The words are to his mother. Not to the crowd, not to the cameras or the diplomats, to his _mother._

"Osamu? No, ya gotta have it..." she doesn't look like she knows what to say, wordless in the absence of a way to explain the sight in front of her. "Wrong..."

With shaky steps and a gentle hand, she pushes up his left sleeve and reveals the point of his weakness. The evidence he'd been hiding knowing full well it was too incriminating to stay hidden - the truth always comes out, and at the most inopportune times too. His crescent-shaped birthmark stares him in the face like a brand.

His mother drops his hand like she's been burned. He would scoff at the drama of it all if he at all had the heart.

In the moment, Osamu wishes he could curl up into nothing, swallow himself down like a black hole until there's nothing left. Just nothing.

Sadly, life doesn't cater to your every whim. It plods along its fucked up linear progression unceasingly and without mercy, leaving in its wake the ruins of the past. 

It does have a cruel sense of equilibrium though, which is why Atsumu pushes his way through the crowd then, slight frown plastered on his face as he inquires,

"Uh...wa's goin' on..." 

Atsumu is not his saving grace this time. 

In fact, Atsumu's presence probably makes everything a hundred times worse, because now he's not just cheating on his husband, he's _not even married to him._

Their mother notices before Osamu has the chance to get any words of warning out - not that he'd know what to say without incriminating them both anyway. Sending them both careening off the edge of redeemability.

"Atsumu...why're ya wearin' yer brother's weddin' ring?" 

Atsumu looks like he just got caught in the process of murdering someone - Osamu would find the look on his face absolutely priceless if they weren't about to get wasted in front of the public's lens into the world of royalty. His mouth is agape, eyes wide and flicking around the room as if searching for an explanation. 

_We are so fucked._

"Um...so...okay well," Osamu inwardly (and probably outwardly cringes). (Whenever Atsumu starts a sentence with 'okay well' it means he's probably admitting to doing something he can't bullshit his way out of.) "So there's a really good explanation fer this, right? But like...it's a really hard explanation andja probably wouldn't like it so _maybe_ we could just not-"

"Atsumu, you will explain to me right now what is going on." 

Atsumu plasters on that tense smile, holding out two index fingers as if that will realistically stop the hurricane that is their mother when she's angry. 

"Or-"

" _Atsumu Miya-_ " 

"Jesus fuckin' fine!" He practically screams into the now completely silent dining hall, strangled words bouncing off every shimmering surface. The remainder of the outburst is shrouded in silence so heavy it intends to crush Osamu where he stands. 

Hesitantly, he casts a sideways glance to his boyfriend who stands rigid, almost unmoving. Osamu expects a scowl or a glare, at the very least. _Not_ the small, soft smile he's directing toward Osamu - it's tentative, sweet, sad, like a reassurance, not that Osamu currently possesses the ability to read between the lines with how close together Suna's set them. 

But god, does he love this man. 

In the face of literally the worst possible case scenario, he's smiling like the sweet, adorable, secretly soft fucking dickhead he is. 

Atsumu draws a heavy breath, weighed down by his next words.

"Okay, so...in my defense, ya weren't s'posed ta find out." 

And there it is. His stunning opener. 

Yeah, they are so fucked. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shiiiit. it's literally been two weeks. okay, a few orders of business to attend to: 
> 
> 1 (Apologies):  
> oh my god, i am literally so sorry. i'm SO SORRY. fuck. i'm soRRY. 
> 
> 2 (Apologies 2.0 - now with lame excuses!):  
> okay, so like, i could lie to you and tell you that i spent all of those two weeks writing this, the longest chapter thus far that i have written, but like i said, that would be a lie. because, in reality, i spent one and a half of those weeks watching Queen Elizabeth's coronation and writing a coronation scene which my fucking shit brain later realized was completely irrelevant to the story so that was fun. 
> 
> 3 (shit man wine is expensive):   
> so this doesn't matter like at all, but i did a bunch of fancy wine research because i was thinking i would name the wine that inevitably led to the twins' discovery (evidently i did not). so yah that was all pointless but guess what? fun fact: the most expensive wine in the world (currently) costs like $560,000 so...do with that what you will.
> 
> 4 (goodbye and thank you):  
> finally i would like to say, thank you so much luvs for sticking with me!! i know my update schedule has been objectively horrible lately but you guys have been so supportive. it makes me so happy and really takes some of the stress out of my life knowing you guys won't berate me for late updates! ilysm and i hope you'll stick around for the end <333 have a lovely day/night luvs!
> 
> P.S.  
> not sorry for the cliffhanger O^O.


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